


But Could Never Have

by ravnoschick



Series: The One Thing I Always Wanted [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Anxiety Attacks, Bisexual Female Character, Correspondence, F/F, F/M, Ferelden (Dragon Age), Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Long-Distance Relationship, Love Letters, Mage Rebellion (Dragon Age), Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Polyamorous Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Second Chances, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 67,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravnoschick/pseuds/ravnoschick
Summary: “That brings me to the wager. If I win, I would like you to write to me and tell me what Kirkwall is like. And in turn I’ll write to you and keep you up to date on all the latest Ferelden news.”“That’s all?” It seemed too simple.She nodded. “One letter a month, for a year. I’ll reimburse you for the cost of the courier.”“You rode here from Denerim and waited a week to meet me, and all you want is one letter a month for a year? Forgive me for being skeptical, but there are other people who would be happy to oblige your curiosity about Kirkwall. Why me?”“Because you’re you,” she blurted. Cullen’s brow rose as she blushed and cleared her throat. “Because you’re important to me.” Then she smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And I’ll be damned if I let some jackass blood mages ruin that. So, do you accept this wager?”“I accept.”“Good. Let’s begin.”
Relationships: Alistair/Female Amell (Dragon Age), Bethany Hawke/Nathaniel Howe, Female Amell/Anders, Female Amell/Anders/Zevran Arainai, Female Amell/Cullen Rutherford, Female Amell/Leliana (Dragon Age), Female Amell/Zevran Arainai
Series: The One Thing I Always Wanted [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046185
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	1. Opening Moves

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written any fic in forever, but I wanted to write something that let my HoF meddle in DAII (and eventually DA:I) and cause mage drama. So this happened.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hero of Ferelden requests Cullen's presence at the Spoiled Princess for a game of chess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief mentions of past assault and suicidal thoughts.

“That’s not the hero of Ferelden,” Boggs said. “I heard she’s blonde, and stacked like an Orlesian barmaid.” He punctuated his claim with a lewd gesture indicating breasts the size of ripe summer melons, and the other knights laughed uproariously. It wasn’t particularly a good joke in Knight-Lieutenant Jacques’ opinion, but he was still nursing his first flagon of ale, while the rest were deep in their cups. Jacques preferred to remain sober—if nothing else, he had no taste for Ferelden ale, and it was the only ale the Spoiled Princess stocked. Being sloshed appeared to make Knight-Captain Boggs appear witty and hilarious to their fellows, when in truth the man was an obnoxious horse’s ass.

“Nah,” Tailor said. He slashed the air in front of him with one hand as ale sloshed over the sides of his cup in the other. “I heard she was one of them Dalish elves with a face tattoo. Wardens don’t care if a mage is a knife-ear, or a filthy apostate.”

Another round of howling laughter, and Jacques winced and hid his frown behind the rim of his mug. Apostate might be correct, but it was damned disrespectful to refer to the mage who had ended the Blight as “filthy.” They would be hip-deep in darkspawn in Orlais by now if they hadn’t been defeated at Denerim. Not that any of this lot were likely to be grateful to the hero—there wasn’t a Ferelden among the motley crew shipped from all over Thedas to replace the knights lost during the slaughter at Kinloch Hold. Jacques at least had a Ferelden mother, so he was sympathetic to the kingdom’s plight. She would weep if she saw the devastated state of her homeland.

“Well at least we know she’s not a dwarf,” Boggs said, “being a mage and all. But that’s not the point. The point is, whoever she is, that’s not her.” He nodded toward the back of the room.

Tucked into the corner farthest from the entrance was a woman in light armor. She sat with her back to the wall that was still stained black with smoke from when the inn had been sacked by darkspawn, either oblivious to the soot or immune to the singed scent that clung to everything within the Princess. The woman hadn’t made a sound since the knights entered hours ago. Her attention remained focused on the book open before her on the table, and her only movement was the steady turn of its pages. Between the poor lighting and the woman’s bowed head it was difficult to distinguish her features. Like Jacques, the woman nursed the same drink all evening—a glass of wine, which meant she had more coin on hand than the knights did. Thanks to the Blight there was still a shortage of nearly everything, and the price of a glass of wine at the Spoiled Princess could feed a local family for a week.

_Mercenary_ , he wagered. Unfortunately there seemed no shortage of those these days. Vultures looking to pick at the carcass of the kingdom. Something was off about her, but Jacques couldn’t quite name it—a vague impression that something dangerous lurked beneath that calm demeanor. Or perhaps the place was making him paranoid. The templars were still scrubbing blood and worse from the walls of Kinloch Hold, and a new horror was discovered nearly every day as they removed rubble and made repairs.

“Too right,” Tailor agreed with Boggs. “Besides, the hero’s probably in Denerim, sucking the new king’s cock.”

Another round of laughter, and it grated on Jacques’ nerves like the cackling of flustered hens. He rose and pushed away from the table.

“Where are you going?” Tailor asked.

“Need another round.” Jacques headed to the bar and leaned against it heavily. The innkeeper, Keth, crossed to him and peered into the half-empty mug. “My apologies for my comrades,” he said, his voice low.

Keth nodded. “No worry. They’re rather tame compared to the last lot.”

Jacques’ brow rose, but he didn’t ask—he would be happier not knowing. “Do you know who the woman is?”

“Yes.” The innkeeper produced a rag from his back pocket and studiously wiped at an old blotch staining the wood.

“Can you tell me who she is?”

“No. But she can, if you’re brave enough to ask her.”

Jacques turned and studied the woman again, able to catch more details at this distance. The lamplight caught strands of red hair woven among the brown, all of which she wore twisted into a massive bun atop her head. Jacques scratched the back of his neck—his scalp still itched from the last time he had shaved. The style wasn’t fashionable, but helmet hair had never been in vogue so he considered baldness a reasonable compromise. If nothing else it hid the receding hairline he had inherited from his father.

The woman’s armor seemed familiar somehow. At first glance he thought it to be some sort of hide or leather—light but serviceable for those who were fast on their feet or attacked from range. Something about the particular shade of it, or perhaps the unique texture, sparked a faded memory of the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux and the wondrous set of armor of some long dead knight, now forgotten and gathering dust like so many of the Chantry’s curiosities.

Dragonscale armor.

_Maker’s Breath_. It really was the Hero of Ferelden. Jacques ought to be making apologies to her, not Keth. He left his drink on the bar and cautiously approached her, and each step loud against the tavern’s well-worn floor. He froze a few steps away when the table growled at him—or rather the mabari hound hidden in the shadows beneath the table did. Jacques swallowed hard as his mouth dried.

“My apologies, my lady,” he blurted.

She turned a page without so much as a glance at him. “Templars never apologize.”

Jacques blinked, stunned silent at the utter contempt in her voice. He had heard dark rumors about the goings-on in Kinloch Hold that led to the blood mage uprising—horrid tales of the very worst behavior on the part of the knights tasked with the mages’ care. The small circle he had served in Orlais had always been quiet, almost sedate. Of course there was the occasional unrest—a mage failed their Harrowing, or a teenager made a break for it, but he’d never met a teenager who didn’t go through a headstrong phase, mage or not. These things were expected, but if the rumors about Kinloch Hold were true… He straightened and cleared his throat.

“I do,” Jacques said.

She snorted. “You must be new, then.”

“Not particularly, no. My mother always emphasized the importance of respecting others.”

“That doesn’t seem very Orlesian of her.” She turned another page, and Jacques was impressed. He could read well enough, but certainly not that quickly.

“That’s because she is Ferelden.”

She sat back and peered up at him—Maker, she looked as young as his baby sister. Certainly too young to be leading an army of humans, elves, and dwarves against a sea of darkspawn, and too delicate to have plunged her sword through the skull of an Archdemon. She folded her hands and studied him with a curious tilt to her head. Jacques recognized the suspicion in her dark eyes—he had seen it often enough in mages who transferred to his circle. It was the calculating gaze of a mage who had been mistreated by the Order, and was resignedly attempting to divine what cruelties he planned to visit upon her. Jacques had never crossed a line during his years of service, but he knew that many of his fellows could not claim the same.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Jacques cleared his throat. “I merely wished to apologize for my comrades’ behavior.”

“All of it?”

He frowned. “Pardon?”

“Are you apologizing for the behavior of all your comrades?” She tapped her chin like someone perusing the wares during market day. “Because if that is so, I’m afraid you’ll have quite a bit more apologizing to do. I endured a decade of injuries at the Order’s hands.”

His face flushed from a mix of horror and shame. “I am sorry—”

“Thank you.” Her smile was a blade that could slice through the heaviest armor. “I do feel so much better now.”

The other knights were silent at their table, and Jacques felt their regard like arrows in his back. He sighed and his shoulders slumped as he turned to leave.

“Perhaps there is one thing you could do for me,” she said.

“Yes, my lady?”

“When you return to the tower, would you please tell Knight-Captain Cullen that Brenna Amell requests his presence at the Spoiled Princess for a game of chess at his convenience? I will be in residence here through the end of the week.” A questioning canine whine sounded from beneath the table, and she reached under and patted the mabari’s massive head as she murmured to the beast.

Jacques frowned. Knight-Captain Cullen was one of the few templars who had survived Uldred’s revolt, and the only one who had done so after having been captured by the blood mages. Though it was debatable if “survived” was the correct term—the man was an anxious ruin who seemed a hairsbreadth from collapse.

“Of course, Lady Amell. Is that all?”

“That should do it, I think. I hope.” She closed her book with a slight grimace. She eyed her glass, tossed back the remaining wine, and rose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve rather heard enough drunken rambling for one evening.”

Jacques nodded numbly. “Agreed.”

Lady Amell’s gaze slid from Jacques to the other knights and back again. “Perhaps you might consider finding more suitable drinking partners.”

He chuckled. “I think I may stop drinking for the time being. Things being what they are, it would save me a bit of coin.”

“An Orlesian giving up drink? Perish the thought!”

The mabari emerged from beneath the table to stand at its mistress’s side, and a chorus of less-than-muffled gasps sounded behind Jacques. Apparently none of the other knights had spotted the beast, either.

“I’ll gladly give up this ale, and since I cannot afford a good Orlesian wine…” he trailed off and shrugged.

“That just seems criminal. Keth! A glass of Chateaux Delacroix for the good knight, please. Put it on my tab.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Of course, Lady Amell. Right away.”

“Thank you, Keth.” She turned and marched to the stairs leading up to the guest rooms, the mabari trailing a step behind.

When she was gone Jacques returned to the bar to claim his prize. He raised the glass, swirled its ruby contents, closed his eyes and inhaled the scents of home. It might be years before he saw Orlais again—years trapped with drunken fools like this sad lot. He sighed and tuned out the clamor of the other knights asking to know what Lady Amell had said to him. Jacques would enjoy his wine and then return to the tower. He had a message to deliver.

* * *

_Maker, grant me peace from these nightmares, that I may be free to do Your work._

“Ser?”

_Andraste, grant me the strength to endure this._

“Knight-Captain?”

Cullen flinched, opened his eyes and raised his head. Even the sisters left him alone when he was in the chapel, and as of late, Cullen was nearly always in the chapel when not on duty—it was the only place in the tower where he found any peace. Maybe this was some sort of penance, though he had no idea what he could’ve done to merit the punishment he’d endured.

Well, perhaps one thing—the sin of trusting those who must not be trusted. His judgement had been clouded, and he would not allow that to happen again.

A knight-lieutenant stood just in his peripheral vision, hesitating out of harm’s way as though he expected Cullen to snap and slaver like a rabid dog at the interruption. Everyone here treated him as though he was fragile—a glass statue of a templar that might shatter at any moment under the weight of what had happened. _The incident_. Cullen didn’t feel fragile. Just raw, ragged and exhausted as he counted the remaining minutes until he left Kinloch Hold for good.

“My apologies, Knight-Captain, but I wanted to catch you before I returned to duty.”

Cullen sighed and rose. His knees ached in protest of too much time spent kneeling, but the pain was the least of his worries. “Yes, Knight-Lieutenant…?”

“Jacques, ser. I transferred here last week.”

Of course he did. Nearly all of the knights were new transfers because their predecessors were dead except for a handful of survivors—though _survivor_ seemed the wrong term for the knights still standing. As far as Cullen was concerned, survival seemed like a curse, for death would have been a blessing compared to his continuing agonies.

“Very well, Knight-Lieutenant Jacques. How can I help you?”

“I have a message for you, from Lady Brenna Amell.”

The name hit Cullen like a blow to the chest and it knocked the air from his lungs in a startled exhale. _Maker_ , Brenna was the last person he wanted to see at the moment, or perhaps ever again. His infatuation with her had nearly killed him.

“She’s here? Why?” he asked.

“She’s staying at the Spoiled Princess through the end of the week. She requests your presence at the inn for a game of chess, at your convenience.”

Cullen nodded numbly—the end of the week, when he was set to leave for Kirkwall. She must have found out about his transfer, but why? One last game for old times’ sake? It seemed unlikely, considering how they had parted ways. His memory was fuzzy, affected by thirst, hunger, lyrium withdrawal, and trauma, but the image of Brenna’s look of horrified betrayal was etched in his mind. Of the many visions of her that the blood mages had tormented him with, none had held such anguish as she had shown when he demanded that the surviving mages be executed.

“Is that all?” Cullen asked.

“Yes, ser.”

“Thank you.”

Knight-Lieutenant Jacques paused as though pondering saying something, but then he nodded and retreated, leaving Cullen alone in the empty chapel.

Cullen sank onto the bench and rubbed his face with his hands as though he could scrub away the visions that assaulted him. _Damn._ There had to be trap in this somehow—a test, and he couldn’t endure another failure. He would ignore her invitation. Maker only knew what would happen if he saw her again. The last thing he needed was additional fuel for his nightmares.

Unless...it might be useful to face his fears. To prove that he was stronger than what had been done to him, and show the Order that he was truly prepared to continue his service.

A door slammed somewhere down the hall and Cullen jumped. Cold sweat beaded upon his brow. _Deep, slow breaths_. Since the incident the smallest things set his heart racing—loud noises, certain smells or sounds—and his chest tightened until he gasped for air. The Revered Mother had taught him a breathing exercise to regain his calm, and it seemed to help. A bit.

Perhaps it was best that he didn’t see Brenna. He would simply ignore her invitation, and then the matter would be finished when he left for Kirkwall.

* * *

The tower buzzed with speculation as the days passed. Cullen was grateful that Knight-Lieutenant Jacques had kept his confidence about Brenna’s request, but the mystery of why the Hero of Ferelden was staying at the Spoiled Princess and what, or who, she was waiting for drew increasing attention from the inhabitants of Kinloch Hold. Cullen wasn’t included in the conversation because most people continued to avoid him, but there was no avoiding the conspiratory whispers that he overheard at every turn.

The most popular theory seemed to be that she was waiting for the new king to arrive for some sort of sordid affair now that he was married to Queen Anora, but Cullen thought that was pure rubbish. Brenna would never make such spectacle out of a secret—but it did beg the question of why she insisted on making a spectacle of waiting. Brenna was clever, which was one of the things that made her a challenging opponent in chess. She never made the same mistake twice and always concealed her strategy.

Cullen struggled with the question as the whispered theories increased in volume and frequency, until finally his own curiosity got the best of him on the day before he was to leave. His final duty shift had ended the day before, and after another restless night he donned his rarely-used civilian clothes and left the tower. The ferryman was surprised to see anyone at the early hour and Cullen squinted in the bright morning sun. As the ferry sailed across Lake Calenhad he silently assured himself that it would only be one conversation, and tomorrow everything in Kinloch Hold would be in his past. Including Brenna Amell.

When they reached the dock Cullen thanked the ferryman, and his knees were oddly weak as he approached the Spoiled Princess. He stopped and stared at the building, feeling an odd kinship with it—they had both been attacked and nearly destroyed, and were slowly rebuilding.

His fragile calm shattered as he was bowled over and knocked to the ground. Cullen grunted as he hit the dirt— _under attack_ his instincts screamed, until said attacker assaulted him with slobbery canine kisses after it dropped an enormous branch onto his chest. A mabari. He was being enthusiastically licked to death by a war hound. Cullen sputtered—too stunned to decide if he should laugh at the utter ridiculousness or curse at nearly being frightened to death.

“Cullen, no! Bad dog! Off!”

The hound bounded away, and Cullen used his sleeve to wipe drool from his face as he slowly sat up. The mabari stopped in front of its mistress—Brenna, who winced at Cullen sheepishly. He tensed, expecting a flashback, but nothing happened. _Thank the Maker_. Finally a moment’s peace from them. 

“Sorry,” Brenna said. “He wanted you to play fetch, too.”

“It would appear so.” Cullen picked up the branch that had rolled into his lap and tossed it to the dog, who caught it with one short leap.

“The royal guard nearly pincushioned him the last time he did that to Alistair. His name is Ser Cullen Barksalot.”

Cullen stared at the hound, wondering if he had heard that correctly or if his weary mind was playing tricks on him. “I—what?”

Brenna scratched behind the mabari’s ears as it butted her with its head. “I saved him. At Ostagar. He was sickened and I brought the hounds keeper a plant to create a curative, and after the battle he found me and bonded with me.” She smiled, her cheeks stained pink with her familiar blush. Cullen’s breath caught at the once-sweet memories of fleeting glimpses of that shy smile directed at him in passing, now forever soured. He closed his eyes and Brenna continued in a rush. “I didn’t know what to call him, and I knew that a mabari needed a strong name. An honorable name. So I named him after you.”

He took several deep breaths until the anxious knot in his chest unraveled. When he opened his eyes again Brenna watched him with nervous hope, and he forced a strained smile.

“Thank you? I think.”

“And, well, he’s quiet and he stares at me all the time, so it seemed fitting. He’s miserable at chess, though.”

Cullen coughed a startled laugh, and she grinned. _Maker’s breath._ She really was going to be the death of him. “Is that why you asked for me? To teach your dog chess?”

“No, though a mabari would probably need a proper Ferelden tutor. I was about to have some tea if you would like to join me.” She nodded toward the inn, and then frowned down at her mabari. “You’re not bringing that inside. Drop it.”

Tea. Chess. Fetch with a hound. It was all so...mundane. Too mundane? To lull him into lowering his guard? To what end? What did she want from him? Cullen pondered the possibilities as he rose and tried to brush away dirty paw prints from his tunic.

Brenna sighed at the dog. “What did I say about not knocking people over?” It whined in reply and dropped its head as though ashamed, and Brenna placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one you flattened.”

The hound trotted over to Cullen, flopped at his feet and rolled onto its back, presenting its belly. Cullen bent and obliged the dog with a belly rub, and it wriggled with canine glee.

“Shameless.” Brenna folded her arms. “They spoiled him absolutely rotten at the palace. You’d think he killed the Archdemon himself.”

Cullen looked up at the reminder that she had been named the Hero of Ferelden. She didn’t look much like he imagined a famous warrior should, but neither did she look like the apprentice he remembered. In fact, she looked like an adventurer, armed and armored, or perhaps a city guard. He had never seen a mage wield a sword before—maybe becoming a Grey Warden had truly transformed her into something entirely different.

“You’re not wearing the Warden’s colors,” he said.

Brenna glanced down at her attire and shrugged. “I try not to when I’m traveling. The journey is faster when no one recognizes me. So, tea?”

He gave the dog one last pat. “Tea would be fine, thank you.”

“Excellent. If you’ll follow me.” She smiled, and then pointed a finger in warning at the mabari. “No jumping. Got it?” The dog barked in reply, which she seemed to take as agreement.

The innkeeper was sweeping the floor of the tavern when they entered, and he nodded to the group. “My lady.”

Cullen had only visited the Spoiled Princess on a few occasions—the ale was watered down, overpriced, and generally not worth drinking unless another knight was celebrating something or other. The inn’s interior shared the same scars of recent damage as the exterior—scorched, blackened walls and hasty repairs.

“Keth, do you mind if we sit in the kitchen?” she asked.

“Help yourself, Lady Brenna. Shout if you need me.”

“Thank you. It’s warmer back there,” she explained to Cullen. “And it has better access to the biscuits.” The mabari perked up with an inquisitive whine, and Brenna frowned. “No more biscuits for you or you’ll be round like a sausage.”

“Isn’t a retired war dog allowed a few extra biscuits?” Cullen asked.

“He’s not retired. The Blight may be over, but there are still plenty of darkspawn war bands roving about. We ran into two of them on the way here.” She pushed through a swinging door and held it open for both Cullens. The mabari trotted past her and made a beeline for the kitchen hearth, and it stretched out on the threadbare rug in front of the fire.

“You fought darkspawn on the road? By yourself?” Cullen inhaled the smell of simmering stew and was reminded of how little he had eaten. He rarely had an appetite, and when he did the nausea inspired by the visions made short work of expelling whatever he had ingested.

“Just a few genlocks and hurlock or two,” Brenna said. “Nothing we couldn’t handle. Have a seat.”

He watched as she puttered around the kitchen. If nothing else, it would be a strange tale to tell his new comrades in Kirkwall. _What did you do before your left your last assignment, Knight-Captain? Oh, the Hero of Ferelden served me tea._

Brenna set the table and placed a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea between them. “One more thing. I’ll be right back.”

She hurried out of the kitchen and up the servants’ stairway to the guest rooms. The moment she left the mabari leaped up from its spot and crossed to Cullen. The hound looked to Cullen, to the biscuits, and back again.

“So you’re my namesake, are you?” Cullen chose a shortbread biscuit that was only semi-burned and offered it to the mabari, who showed surprising restraint in gently taking the treat before gobbling it down. “Well, if history is to remember me as the dog, at least you’re a mabari. I’d hate to be a yappy Orlesian lap dog.”

He fed the dog a few more biscuits before Brenna returned and arranged the chessboard between them. It was a new set—she had always insisted on playing with her own set, which had begun showing signs of wear as the edges of the board frayed and the pieces chipped. This was a sturdy set of dwarven design, and the pieces were carved from some sort of stone with sparkling flecks that caught the light as she placed them in their proper spaces. Grey for her, white for him--she always insisted that he take the white set. When he finally questioned her about it she studied him for a silent moment before replying, “templars advance, mages defend.”

“Before we begin, I would like to set a wager,” she said.

“Oh?” Cullen suppressed a grimace as his gut twisted—here was the catch.

She poured their tea and then she fidgeted with her cup as it cooled. “I understand you’ve been assigned to Kirkwall. I lived there until…” She trailed off, and Cullen didn’t need her to continue to know what she meant—until she was taken to the Circle of Magi.

Cullen quirked an eyebrow. “The Hero of Ferelden is a Marcher?”

“Just so.” Brenna straightened and folded her hands atop the table. “I don’t remember much of it. When I heard you were being transferred there, I thought it might be an opportunity for us to help one another.”

“How?”

“That brings me to the wager. If I win, I would like you to write to me and tell me what Kirkwall is like. And in turn I’ll write to you and keep you up to date on all the latest Ferelden news.”

“That’s all?” It seemed too simple.

She nodded. “One letter a month, for a year. I’ll reimburse you for the cost of the courier.”

“You rode here from Denerim and waited a week to meet me, and all you want is one letter a month for a year? Forgive me for being skeptical, but there are other people who would be happy to oblige your curiosity about Kirkwall. Why me?”

“Because you’re _you_ ,” she blurted. Cullen’s brow rose as she blushed and cleared her throat. “I don’t—” She paused, frowned, squared her shoulders and began again. “I was going to fail my Harrowing. On purpose, so they’d be forced to kill me.”

His eyes widened. “What? Why?”

“You know why.” Brenna gave him one of her _don’t be an idiot_ disapproving glares, and he nodded slowly. “I had everything planned,” she continued. “I had written a letter with my goodbyes. I thought I was ready, and then I walked into the Harrowing Chamber and saw you, and I knew I couldn’t do it. I was prepared to let any other templar execute me, but not you. I couldn’t do that to you. I think First Enchanter Irving knew that and asked for you. Clever bastard.” She smiled ruefully before raising her tea cup and taking a careful sip.

Cullen raised his own cup and let the steaming drink burn his dry mouth. He fought not to picture that day, of what it might have been like if Brenna had failed. He had dreaded that possibility from the moment he knew he was to preside over her Harrowing, but he had faith that she would pass the test unharmed.

_Faith._ His faith in had betrayed him—used against him like a blade that cut him to his core and left him a shadow of his former self. A shade that neither ate nor slept, and who wandered the halls of Kinloch Hold like one more restless spirit.

“And if I win?” he asked.

“What would you like?”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Her innocent question echoed the twisted hallucinations that were still too fresh in his mind. _What do you want? Just take it, and give in. It’s so much easier when you let go..._

The panic subsided due to the sudden generous application of mabari slobber as the dog shoved itself onto his lap and licked his face.

“Sorry. He’s good at that,” Brenna said.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Cullen breathed deep and nudged the hound away. It sat beside him and rested its head in his lap.

“You’re not fine. Neither of us are.” She sipped her tea and set the drink aside. “We’ve both seen too much to ever be fine again. That’s the problem with enduring dark times. Dying is damn easy compared to living with the memories. And the scars.”

He nodded and scratched behind the mabari’s ears.

“I understand that I’m likely the last person in Thedas you want to see right now, but I’d like to remain in contact with you. Writing is probably easiest, since you don’t have to see me.” Brenna’s lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “Though perhaps that should be your victory reward—if you win, I’ll never bother you again.”

“Why do you want to remain in contact with me?” The question slipped before he could think better of asking it, and Brenna’s expression softened.

“Because you’re important to me.” Then she smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And I’ll be damned if I let some jackass blood mages ruin that. So, do you accept this wager?”

“I accept.”

“Good. Let’s begin.”

* * *

_To Warden-Commander Amell_

_Vigil’s Keep,_ _Amaranthine_

_I have arrived in Kirkwall. The journey was uneventful but memorable, as I have never traveled by ship before. The crew kept assuring me that after a few days I would find my “sea legs”, but that did not occur._

_The circle here is housed in an unusual building in the harbor, and a ferry is required to travel to the city proper. I have not had much time to explore the city yet, but my initial impression is that there is an overabundance of stairs._

_I can report that there are many Ferelden refugees here who fled the Blight. Perhaps you could use your influence with the new king to send aid._

_Sincerely,_

_Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_


	2. Rules of Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden-Commander Amell adjusts to life in Vigil's Keep, and makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a bit of Nathaniel's dialogue from Awakening. I should probably also mention that the "slow burn" in the work tags is Brenna/Cullen, and the rest of her relationships are pre-existing.

_“The knight doesn’t move that way, Anders.” Brenna rolled her eyes and sighed with mock disdain as she fidgeted in the too tall chair. Everything in the tower was built for grown-ups, even the oversized bunks the apprentices slept in. She fiercely missed her room with its perfectly sized bed, warm blanket, and mountain of feather pillows, but there was no point in continuing to cry over its loss like a baby. Brenna simply had to accept that she was never going to see that room again, or her home, or her parents_ —

_“Says who?” Anders countered. “It’s a horse, isn’t it? A horse should be able to move in any direction it wants.” To punctuate his point he slid the piece diagonally across the chessboard and toppled one of Brenna’s pawns._

_“The rules say so.” Brenna coughed and channeled the tears that tightened her throat into aloof disappointment in Anders, who was two years older than her and should certainly know better than to behave so poorly. “Games need rules or there would be chaos.”_

_“I like chaos. I hate rules.” He grinned and bowled over another pawn. “This game would be funner if you could explode the pieces with magic.” He wiggled his fingers at her queen as though preparing to cast a spell, and Brenna kicked him under the table. Ander winced. “Sorry. I wouldn’t. I know this is_ yours _.”_

_He said the word with quiet reverence, and she nodded and rescued the pieces from further abuse, setting each one carefully back in its case. Every mage was allowed to take one thing from their home when the templars came to take them away. One thing that was theirs and theirs alone. Most children grabbed a favorite toy_ — _a rag doll, a wooden horse_ — _or other sentimental item. Anders had a pillow his mother had made for him. Jowan had a stuffed Mabari dog with a missing eye. Brenna, ever practical, had chosen the chess set her father had given her on her eighth life day celebration. Father had been teaching her how to play for as long as she could remember, first setting her on his knee and allowing her to watch as he played, and then playing against her once she understood the rules. Chess, he said, was a game of strategy, and the proper strategy could gain the advantage in any situation in life. One just had to find the right one that the matter called for._

_“The point is figuring out how to use those rules to your advantage,” Brenna said. “It teaches you strategy.” She folded her arms, and Anders reached over the board and ruffled her hair. “Hey! Don’t do that.”_

_His grin widened. “Well if you’d remembered to braid your hair today, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. See? Strategy.”_

_“That’s not…” Brenna trailed off and sighed, for there was little use in arguing with him._

_“Come on, Bren.” Anders slid out of his chair after she closed the case and latched it. “Let’s see if Jowan’s burned his eyebrows off again.”_

* * *

“What’s so funny?” Anders asked.

At least Brenna thought that was what he said—his voice was muffled by one of the many feather pillows strewn about the bed. A ridiculous amount of pillows, in her opinion. The bed was also opulently large, and Brenna was quite glad that the darkspawn had destroyed the previous mattress and most of the room’s furniture during their attack on Vigil’s Keep. She shuddered to think of what might have gone on in the room during Arl Howe’s reign. It was a pity she couldn’t kill the vicious bastard twice.

“Bren?” Anders shoved the pillow aside and sat up, golden hair wildly askew.

“Well now it’s your hair.” Brenna turned her desk chair pointed in his direction with her quill. “But before that it was this letter.”

She smiled and shook her head at the missive in question. Only a templar would call a former slave prison _unusual_. Terrifying would be more accurate. Or perhaps nightmarish, considering that the towering statues of weeping slaves had been permanently seared into her memory. It did beg the question of why the Order chose to send Cullen there of all places to recover from his ordeal. Unless they didn’t want him to recover. A place like the Gallows could harden any templar into seeing mages as slaves at best and monsters at worst.

Anders combed his fingers through his hair but only caused further disarray. “This is your fault. You ravished me.”

“Did I?”

“Thoroughly.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Is this some sort of _Welcome to the Wardens_ initiation?” Anders slid out of bed and hunted for his scattered pieces of his clothing. “Because if so, I think I may enjoy this new life.”

“No, though we did have some interesting nights during the Blight. This was a _‘I missed you and I’m thrilled that you’re alive’_ celebration.” Brenna fought the urge to frown as she watched him move about the room. He was far too skinny—whatever he had been doing during his latest apostate adventures, he clearly had not been eating well. Thin, white scars criss-crossed his back, permanent reminders of the lashings he received after previous escape attempts.

“I heard a little about that happened at Kinloch. Were you there?”

“I was there for the clean-up.” She closed her eyes and rubbed the point between her eyebrows where she felt a headache forming. “The templars were waiting for the Rite of Annulment and refused to look for survivors, so my companions and I went in. It was…” _Haunting_ —the images certainly haunted her, but she couldn’t force the word past the emotions that squeezed her throat.

“Hey, none of that now.” Anders drew her to her feet and she pressed her face against his chest as he held her. “It’s all right. We’re still here.”

“True. Don’t you dare die on me.” She hated the watery tone in her voice, but she allowed herself the weak moment. Anders was the only one left of the mages she had grown up with at the circle. After spending years wishing dire fates upon Kinloch and most of its residents, the reality of the circle’s near destruction had been horrible.

Finding Anders in the midst of the attack on Vigil’s Keep seemed like a gift from the Maker—she wasn’t alone in this new place. From the moment Duncan saved her from what would’ve been certain imprisonment, if not death, for aiding Jowan’s escape, Brenna had had someone to guide her as she learned how to live outside the Circle of Magi. She had been glued to Alistair’s side since Ostagar, but Alistair and the rest of their companions had parted ways. Now she was expected to be a commander and an arl, and she still barely understood basic things that non-mages took for granted. Brenna knew a dozen different ways to kill a genlock, but struggled with judging what was a reasonable price to pay for goods in the market.

“I’ll do my best.” Anders brushed an affectionate kiss against her forehead. “Am I staying here or are you banishing me to my own quarters? Do I have quarters?”

“I can assign you quarters, but you’re welcome to stay. There’s plenty of room, and I’d be glad for the company.” Aside from her long friendship with Anders, Brenna was no longer used to sleeping alone, and she would be grateful to have someone to wake her from her nightmares.

“You do have palatial accommodations,” he agreed. “And you know what the best part is?”

“No templars?”

“No templars.” He grinned. “And there’s enough room for an army in that bed.”

Brenna snorted. “Oh you have no idea. Remind me to tell you about our night with Captain Isabella.”

He stepped away and grinned. “Sounds fascinating. I’m looking forward to hearing about all your escapades.”

“Breakfast first.”

“Ravishing _and_ breakfast? I really am going to enjoy it here.”

Brenna tidied up her desk and shut the letters in a drawer. “We’ll see if you keep up that cheer after the next time we fight darkspawn.”

Anders frowned. “Didn’t we just fight them? Aren’t we done?”

She laughed and straightened the collar of his coat. “Unfortunately there are always more darkspawn. Just wait until we need to visit the Deep Roads. You’ll loathe them.”

“Lovely. In that case, I’m going to need a cat.”

“A cat?” Brenna quirked an eyebrow at his serious expression.

“Yes.”

She shrugged. “You can have as many cats as you like, as long as they don’t bully my mabari.”

“Deal.”

* * *

The meal was quiet aside from the scolding Brenna received from Mistress Woolsey—an arlessa should not take her meals in the kitchen like a servant. Mistress Woolsey reminded her a bit of Wynne, and though she liked Wynne, Brenna had always felt as though Wynne was disappointed in her for something or other.

The First Warden had sent Mistress Woolsey to aid Brenna in managing the arling, and judging by the woman’s constant frown Brenna was already failing. Brenna was determined to do her best, but she had much to learn. Even before her arrival she had filled pages in her journal with lists of topics she needed to study, questions to research further, and experts to contact. Arl Eamon had been alternately amused and exasperated by her interrogation and finally promised to send Bann Teagan to aid her when he was free.

Brenna hated not knowing the rules. She had made herself an expert in the workings of Kinloch Hold—identifying everyone’s role, their strengths and weaknesses, and how to manipulate them—but those rules did not apply outside of the circle. The Blight had been a surprising source of information on Ferelden politics, but she still had an enormous amount to learn and little time to do so, combined with the new challenge of talking darkspawn.

And then, as though the Maker decided that she needed an additional challenge, the captain of the guard informed her that they had caught an assassin during the night.

Her first thought was that the guardsmen had somehow managed to catch Zevran sneaking into the keep, but she dismissed it as ridiculous. Zevan was too good to be caught, and as an invited guest he had no need to sneak about.

“Well this is exciting,” Anders said. He followed a step behind her as they descended into the keep’s dungeon, with her mabari a step behind him. 

Brenna was slightly disturbed but by no means surprised that the keep sported a dungeon. A fortress like Vigil’s Keep had doubtlessly needed to house any number of prisoners, unlike the dungeon in Arl Howe’s home in Denerim, which had imprisoned poor souls to be tortured at the arl’s twisted whim.

“Not really.” Brenna shrugged. “People try to kill me all the time.”

“I thought darkspawn tried to kill you all the time. Who else have you angered enough to send an assassin?”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and peered down the stone hallway at the figure pacing behind the cell bars. The man was human, confirming Brenna’s theory that the guards hadn’t somehow nabbed her favorite Antivan Crow.

“It’s a very long list,” she said. “It would be faster to name the people who don’t want to kill me.” Her mouth twitched in a wry smile and Anders shook his head.

“Little Bren, Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, and number one target for assassination.” He tsked in disapproval. “Whatever have you gotten me into?”

“No templars,” she reminded him.

“True. What are you going to do with him?”

“Well, the last time someone sent an assassin after me I recruited him and then slept with him.”

“You’re serious?”

“Quite.” Brenna smirked at his shocked expression. “You’ll love Zevran. He’ll be here in a few weeks. He’s handling some loose ends before his visit.”

“It’s a wonder that you’re still alive.” Anders studied the prisoner, who glared back. “Hmm. This one does seem your type. You do prefer pretty.”

“Yes, but I have you for that, dear.” She patted his shoulder. “Let’s find out who sent this one and why.”

The prisoner appeared a bit older than her, perhaps a decade, and he was pretty enough as Anders had noted—if one was attracted to dark, brooding types, which Brenna was not. The Hero of Ferelden preferred blondes, with the exception of a certain Orlesian redhead and the occasional romp with a Rivaini pirate queen.

"If it isn't the great hero, my father's murderer.” He glared at her, and if dire looks alone could slay someone she’d be dead on the spot. “Aren't you supposed to be ten feet tall? With lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?"

Anders stroked his chin. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“Perhaps he has the wrong Brenna Amell?” she suggested. “I heard the Hero of Ferelden is twenty feet tall and belches fire.”

“Well you did have that one unfortunate incident when the cook got it into his head to add Antivan chiles to the stew that one time. Who gives a bunch of mages hot peppers, honestly?”

She nodded solemnly. “I think that was the eighth time Jowan burned his eyebrows off. Or the ninth. I stopped counting after twelve.”

The prisoner was not amused by their banter. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, we’re mocking Jowan, Maker rest his soul.” Brenna turned to Anders. “I’ll have to tell you that tale another time.” She sighed and studied the prisoner. “You’ll have to tell me who your father was. I’m afraid I’ve killed a great many people.”

“I thought you only killed darkspawn?” Anders asked.

“Darkspawn, demons, abominations, templars, bandits, werewolves, Tevinter slavers, undead, dragon cultists…” Brenna ticked them off one by one and shrugged. “It was really quite exhausting.”

“Enough,” the prisoner growled. “I am Nathaniel Howe, and this land belongs to my family. Do you even remember killing my father?”

“I’d be happier if I could forget.” Brenna winced and rubbed her eyes as though the gesture could banish the visions of Arl Howe’s torture chambers from her mind. She had witnessed many horrors during the Blight, and that place was lodged in her memories like a festering wound. Her mabari nudged her and pressed against her leg, and she scratched him behind the ears.

“I came here to kill you, but when I arrived I realized I just wanted to reclaim some of my family’s things. It’s all I have left. The Howes are pariahs now, those of us left. All thanks to you.”

“Yes, I imagine it’s difficult to be torn from your family and left with nothing, suddenly an outcast based solely on the circumstances of your birth,” Brenna said. She exchanged a dry glance with Anders, who folded his arms and frowned at the prisoner.

“Probably not the best argument to use on two mages,” he agreed. “What are you going to do with him? Feed him to your hound?”

Ser Cullen responded with a cough of canine disgust, and Brenna shook her head. “He only eats templars. You’re not a templar, are you?”

“Of course not,” the Howe scoffed.

“Well that’s good then,” Anders said brightly. “What do you do when you’re not thieving or attempting to assassinate young ladies?”

“I trained in combat under a chevalier. I have skill in scouting, archery, poisons. Why?”

Brenna looked him over with a thoughtful tilt to her head as she gauged his usefulness. He had the build of a scout—speed over strength. The Vigil was rife with soldiers, but it could certainly use more scouts. Plus if he had truly lived here then he must have a wealth of knowledge about the area, its history, and its inhabitants. He would be a valuable asset—if she could trust him not to attempt to stab her the minute her back was turned.

“Did your training include following the chevalier code of honor?” Brenna asked.

He crossed his arms and scowled down at her. “Yes, though I doubt that it matters since you’re the one deciding my fate.”

Anders leaned toward her and mock-whispered, “I think he just insulted your honor. Should I light him on fire?”

“Maybe later, dear. We need him hale and hearty for now. I’m going to conscript him.”

The prisoner’s jaw dropped. “You...what? Absolutely not! Hang me, first.”

She shook her head. “That just seems wasteful. We need more Grey Wardens, and you have combat training. If it helps there’s an excellent chance you won’t survive the Joining.”

“Wait, you never mentioned that to me,” Anders said.

“That’s because I had a feeling that you were going to survive. Divine providence.” She grinned, and Anders rolled his eyes.

"You can’t be serious,” the Howe said. “You like having Grey Wardens who want you dead?"

Brenna shrugged. "Some of my best friends have wanted me dead. It turned out all right in the end."

Nathaniel frowned. “I can’t decide if this is a vote of confidence or punishment.”

“More like resourcefulness,” Anders said. “Brenna was never to sacrifice a pawn unless absolutely necessary.”

“You remembered!” Brenna beamed.

“I still hate chess. And strategy. I’m just not fond of conflict in general.”

“Maker, this is a terrible idea,” Nathaniel muttered.

“Oh look,” Brenna said. “He already knows the wardens’ motto! He’ll fit in just fine.”

* * *

_To Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

_The Gallows, Kirkwall_

_Thank you for the information on the Ferelden refugees. I have passed it on to_ _Ali_ _their majesties the king and queen. I would also like to send aid. Please enclose a list of the refugees’ necessities in your return letter and I will do what I can._

_I arrived at Vigil’s Keep to find it besieged by darkspawn, because even though the Blight has ended I seem to encounter darkspawn wherever I go. It’s really quite tedious. Many of the Orlesian wardens fell defending the keep, so now I find myself tasked with rebuilding our numbers, repairing the keep, managing the arling, and defeating this new darkspawn problem, and the only item on that list that I am qualified to do is fight darkspawn._

_We did not visit Amaranthine during the Blight, and I have much to learn about the arling. I visited the city proper for the first time. It reminds me of a smaller version of Denerim, which I am grateful for, because Denerim was massive and intimidating. I look forward to studying it further._

_During my visit to Amaranthine city my companion challenged me to visit the marketplace and purchase one local food item that I had never heard of and try it. He claims that this is a great method for learning about the local people. I selected a small hand pie made with whitefish and local vegetables, and it was quite good. Ser Cullen Barksalot also approved._

_My challenge to you, if you’re inclined to attempt it, is to do the same with a dish in Kirkwall. I have a faint memory about a fried pastry filled with some sort of fruit jam, but otherwise I don’t recall anything about the local food._

_Sincerely,_

_Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_


	3. Road to Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen dislikes stairs and spicy food.

_“Checkmate.”_

_The apprentice grinned as her opponent frowned at the chessboard. The enchanter was perhaps fifteen years her senior with a sprinkle of premature gray hair at his temples, and he scratched the beard lining his jaw._

_“Are you certain?” the enchanter asked her._

_Cullen silently echoed the question. At first he had tried to ignore their game and focused on monitoring the activity in the library, but things were sedate at the moment. Boring, in fact. He caught the knight stationed across from him yawning more than once._

_“Of course.” The apprentice launched into an animated explanation of her technique, and both the enchanter and Cullen nodded along._

_Cullen was impressed—he wasn’t familiar with that strategy. When he had begun watching the game the apprentice had been several moves into a classic Frostback Defense, and her opponent was countering with a Chevalier’s Gambit. Things became interesting when she switched tactics to a surprise assault that left the enchanter and Cullen stunned._

_The enchanter chuckled and shook his head. “You’re getting too good for me.”_

_“I could teach you.”_

_“Another time.” He rose and smiled. “Come on, I’ll escort you back to the dormitory.”_

_The apprentice nodded as he walked away, and she replaced the pieces in their case with careful efficiency. She hugged the case to her chest as she passed Cullen, and he couldn’t resist the urge to speak._

_“Where did you learn that strategy?” Cullen asked her. She flinched and halted, her posture tense as though expecting a blow to follow the question. Most of the mages were similarly skittish—wary like barn cats who were uncertain whether they could trust the humans who invaded their space but unable to contain their curiosity about them._

_“It’s based on a Tevinter opening.” She turned and studied him before continuing. “I modified it. We have a three-volume collection of classic chess strategies of the old Imperium, and—” Her mouth snapped shut and she flushed bright red._

_“And?” he prompted her._

_Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s in the senior enchanter library.”_

_“Ah.” Cullen suppressed a smile—apprentices weren’t allowed access to any of the enchanters’s libraries. Someone must have smuggled the books to her. It would be a serious offense if they were books on magical theory, but chess? He doubted that anyone would mind._

_“Your secret is safe with me,” he assured her._

_“Thank you.” Her guarded demeanor softened as she beamed a grateful smile, and Cullen’s face heated. It was dangerous for a templar to be distracted by a pretty mage, and she was quite distracting. “Here, I’ll give you the title and author.”_

_She darted to a nearby desk and scribbled the information on a scrap piece of parchment. “It’s a translation from the original Tevene and I suspect that there are a few quirks in the language but otherwise it’s a fascinating read.” Her hand shook as she held the scrap out to him, and Cullen reached for it slowly to avoid startling her._

_“Thank you, Apprentice…?”_

_“Brenna. Brenna Amell.”_

_“I’m Cullen Rutherford.”_

_Brenna smiled and began to reply, but she was interrupted when her companion called out to her from the doorway where he looked on in disapproval. She winced and muttered a quick apology before hurrying away._

***

It was a simple thing to report the presence of Ferelden refugees, but finding out how to help them was another matter. The other templars weren’t inclined to help—most were still resentful that the Gallows had been used as a staging area to record, receive or reject refugees during the Blight, and the barracks were filled with muttered complaints about “those bleedin’ dog lords.” At least his new roommate, Raleigh Samson, seemed decent enough, and he provided Cullen with the name of a sister who had been working with the refugees.

Unfortunately meeting with the sister meant journeying to Hightown. Cullen had considered himself to be in good physical shape before the incident, and he knew that his health had declined since then, but the trek from the Gallows to the chantry in Hightown put that decline in sharp focus. The day was stifling, and the heat was made worse by his uniform. His breath was ragged and sweat beaded his brow and trickled down his back by the time he reached his destination. Thankfully he had a few quiet moments to catch his breath once he arrived, and he vowed to prepare a plan for regaining his physical health now that he had obtained a measure of peace of mind.

The usual sense of calm that Cullen found within a chantry was absent here. The towering structure was filled with stained glass and enormous statues, as though the nobility of Kirkwall were trying to win the Maker’s favor by building Him a palace. In Cullen’s opinion, the time, effort, and coin that went into its creation would have been better spent aiding Kirkwall’s numerous less fortunate citizens.

“Knight-Captain? I am Sister Constance.”

Cullen turned and bowed. “Thank you for meeting me, Sister.”

“How may I assist you?” Sister Constance had a slight Orlesian accent, and her weathered face was creased with smile lines. Cullen was reminded of the kind patience of a revered mother he had met once in Redcliffe.

“I’m told that you have been working with the Ferelden refugees, and I have a…” He trailed off, uncertain of how to describe his relationship with Brenna. “Contact,” he continued, “who wishes to send aid. She requested a list of needed items.”

“That’s very kind. Any aid will be greatly appreciated. Come with me. I will make you a list.”

Cullen followed up a set of stairs to a communal area where other chantry members had gathered to work and converse. He tried not to frown at the statues as Sister Constance dashed off a quick list—Kirkwall was overfond of looming statues that seemed to watch the citizens with disapproval. Since his arrival at the Gallows he often wondered why no one had removed the slave statues after the Kirkwallers chased out the Imperium. They were certainly a detriment to the morale of both the Order and the Circle.

“Here you are.” Sister Constance handed him the list. “You may also wish to speak with Mistress Lirene. She runs a shop in Lowtown that sells Ferelden imports, and we have been working together to aid those in need.”

Lowtown—at least that was in the right direction, and wouldn’t involve ascending more stairs. “Thank you, Sister.”

“Maker watch over you, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen smiled but the expression was tight and weary. He retreated from the chantry, all the while feeling the stone gaze of the statues upon him.

The market in Lowtown was bustling with shoppers perusing the vendors’ wares. Cullen paused for a moment in the shade and watched the crowd. He pondered Brenna’s latest challenge, and he wondered what she had thought while visiting the market in Amaranthine. It was likely a similar sight, as both cities were known as centers of trade—and both were filled with Fereldens.

He coughed a wry laugh. He fled his country for a much needed respite and somehow settled in a place that held a large number of his countrymen who were running from their own nightmares.

He had finally received word from his sister, Mia, whose letter had gone astray during his transfer before it finally arrived in Kirkwall. Mia informed him that their family had fled to South Reach, and his parents hadn’t survived the Blight. He mourned them, of course, and he worried for his siblings. They could just as easily have ended up here, another family of anxious, hungry refugees. Was anyone sending aid to South Reach? To the displaced citizens throughout Ferelden? Brenna might know...

Cullen spotted the sign for Lirene’s Ferelden Imports and he straightened and squared his shoulders. He would finish this task, complete Brenna’s challenge, and then return to the dubious comforts of his new home.

***

_To Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_

_Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine_

_I have attached two lists of items needed by the local refugees that were provided to me by Sister Constance and Mistress Lirene, the proprietor of Lirene’s Ferelden Imports. Mistress Lirene was skeptical of my ability to provide said aid. I hope that you will be able to preserve my good name by proving her skepticism wrong._

_Kirkwall is a city that has no qualms about advertising the division between the nobility and the peasantry. The well-to-do live in the aptly named Hightown, where they can literally look down on everyone else. The rest of the citizens live in Lowtown, with the most unfortunate souls found in Darktown—an area I have not visited yet, and judging by the reports about it I hope I have no call to do so._

_I accepted your challenge and searched the market for local food to try. It was difficult to determine which items could be considered true Kirkwall fare due to the city’s status as a trade center. Vendors sell goods from all corners of Thedas, and I settled on an Antivan spiced meat dish that was cooked on a wooden skewer. The spices were too strong for my preference, and I think I will try something tamer next time._

_I do not have a counter assignment for you, but I do have a question. How are the victims of the Blight faring in Ferelden? I recently received word from my family and I learned that they have relocated to South Reach. Can you comment on the situation there?_

_Sincerely,_

_Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_


	4. Mightier than the Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A larger sample of the Warden-Commander's correspondence, and an appearance by Ser Pounce-a-lot.

_B—_

_Why didn’t you tell me the darkspawn are talking now?!_

_—A_

***

_A—_

_I was waiting for one of them to say something interesting._

_—B_

***

_B—_

_What have they said so far?_

_—A_

***

_A—_

_They said that you should focus on being kingly and I will take care of the darkspawn._

_—B_

_P.S. Tell Anora the chess set is lovely, thank you._

***

_B—_

_Do you need assistance with these new darkspawn?_

_—L_

_***_

_L—_

_No, but a visit from you would be lovely when you’re freed up from whatever it is you’re doing for the chantry._

_—B_

_P.S. Stop reading my correspondence!_

***

_B—_

_I’m not certain when I’ll be available, but I’ll keep your invitation in mind._

_—L_

_P.S. But the letters from your templar are so charming! I’m quite jealous._

***

“Andraste’s flaming knickers, Leliana.” Brenna sighed, balled up the missive and tossed it into the hearth in her office. “Once a bard, always a bard. I suppose we’ll have to write her a proper letter, won’t we, Ser Cullen?”

The mabari looked up from his embroidered pillow, yawned and stretched. Ser Cullen Barksalot enjoyed life as the most famous mabari in the kingdom _—_ when they weren’t fighting darkspawn, he had an assortment of feather pillows to sleep on and all the druffalo steaks he could eat.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She smiled and sighed at the pile of reports waiting to be read, and at the lists of reports she was expected to write, each helpfully annotated in Mistress Woolsey’s precise script with how overdue each one was. Alistair would soon demand a proper update on the increasingly odd darkspawn situation in Amaranthine, but that could wait.

Of course she _wanted_ to write to Leliana (and Zevran, and Alistair). She wanted to tell them how miserable she was without them, and how anxious she felt under pressure from all sides to succeed. Mistress Woolsey never missed an opportunity to remind Brenna of how important her success was to Weisshaupt. Likewise Seneschal Varel constantly reminded her of her duties to the arling, and Captain Garavel the importance of preparing the Vigil to defend against the next attack. Brenna struggled to find an acceptable balance, and each time she felt she was succeeding another disaster unravelled her progress.

She couldn’t tell her companions any of that _—_ she must remain steadfast in her resolve to let them go. Romance had been the farthest thing from her mind when she left the Circle of Magi, and yet she had developed attachments during the Blight. Zevran first, for he only offered the comfort of physical pleasure and she was familiar with that sort of arrangement from her time at Kinloch. Later it seemed only polite to invite Leliana to join them, and everything had worked quite well. Too well, perhaps, as they bonded over their similar tales of loss at a young age followed by the struggle to survive _—_ Brenna with the Circle, Zevran with the Crows, and Leliana as a young bard in Orlais’ grand Game. It was more than simple comfort then, as they found acceptance and understanding with each other.

But Brenna had always known that it wouldn’t last _—_ couldn’t last. Every Circle mage knew that love was a distraction at best and a dangerous weakness at worst. Love was a weapon the templars could use against you. Love ruined mages, as it had ruined Jowan. Brenna had no intention of making that mistake, so when the time came, she let them go. Even Alistair, who she had fallen for last, but whose loss hurt the most.

A knock at the door interrupted her sulk. “Enter.”

Nathaniel poked his head into the room. “You sent for me, Commander?”

“Yes. I have a task that requires your aid.” She rose and set the reports aside, and Ser Cullen rolled off of his pillow and followed her out of the room.

“A new mission?” Nathaniel asked.

“In a manner of speaking.” Brenna hurried through the main hall before anyone could stop her with questions, and she marched toward the library. When she opened the door she froze in the entrance. The Vigil’s library was in sorry shape, because apparently the previous arl preferred to fill his leisure time with torture instead of study. The collection had been neglected, and many of the books were in need of repair _—_ if they could be salvaged at all. Now the contents of several shelves had been pulled down and arranged into piles that likely only made sense to Anders.

“Maker’s breath, Anders. I was only gone an hour.”

“Two hours. Don’t worry, I know where everything is.”

Bewildered by the mess, Brenna slowly shook her head. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Was your task to shoot Anders, Commander?” Nathaniel asked, amused. For the first few weeks he had been filled with venom and furious glares, but he softened after the letters from Bann Sighard and Bann Alfstanna arrived. Brenna had correctly suspected that Nathaniel would never believe the truth about his father if the tale came from her, but he had been convinced by the accounts written by the families of Rendon Howe’s victims. The discovery of Nathaniel’s sister, alive and well and far more astute than her brother, also aided in changing his tune to one more pleasant and less prickly.

“She won’t shoot me. I’m her favorite.” Anders grinned, and Brenna sighed.

“Don’t be so smug. I’ll confiscate your kitten.” Brenna picked up the orange tabby in question, who was seated atop a work table, gleefully gnawing on an abandoned quill. The kitten purred as she snuggled him. “Won’t I, Ser Pounce-a-lot? Yes, I will.”

“Oh that’s just mean,” Anders argued.

Nathaniel held his hands up as though pleading for peace. “Perhaps you could concentrate on the matter at hand and explain _why_ you’ve torn apart the library?”

“We’re fixing the library.” Anders reached for the kitten and Brenna relinquished it. Kittens were cute but sharp, and she preferred the company of her mabari.

“ _I_ was fixing the library,” Brenna clarified. “I’m not sure what you were doing in here, but it looks like you lost control of a whirlwind spell.”

“Ooh, you know a whirlwind spell?” Anders asked.

“Focus, please,” Nathaniel said.

Brenna took a calming breath and started over. “We’re weeding the collection and then cataloging what remains.”

“This doesn’t seem like an efficient use of our time. Shouldn’t we be scouting for darkspawn?” Nathaniel asked.

“It’s noon,” she said. “All the spawn are a-snooze in their unholy hovels. If it helps, we’re visiting the Blackmarsh at the end of the week after the supply shipment arrives.”

“Did you hear that, Ser Pounce-a-lot?” Anders asked the kitten. “We’re going on an adventure. Bren always takes us to the nicest places.”

The kitten didn’t answer, having fallen asleep against Anders’ chest. Brenna shook her head. “He’s staying here. No arguments. Now, our plan is to decide what books we wish to keep, which is why I asked you here, Nathaniel. Any books that contain family history or have personal value will go to you and Delilah.”

His eyes widened. “Thank you, Commander.”

“You’re welcome. The rest of the collection will be catalogued. If we find any rare or valuable books we may be able to trade them for titles we’re missing. And I want to set aside any books that could be used for the school.”

“School? What school?” Nathaniel asked.

Anders set his kitten down and returned to pulling books from shelves. “She wants to start a school for local children and Blight orphans.”

“Oh. That’s a wonderful idea.”

“I thought so.” Brenna waved a hand at the mess. “All right, Anders. Explain your method and we’ll get started.”

***

_To My Nightingale,_

_It certainly won’t do to have you jealous of my Kirkwall correspondence, though you do look quite fetching when you pout. Enclosed please find a sprig of dried Andraste’s Grace and know that I miss you._

_The wardens are handling the new darkspawn threat as well as can be expected considering our small numbers. I have faith that everything will turn out in the end. That, or we’ll all die a terrible death in the Deep Roads and poor Alistair will have to clean up the mess._

_The darkspawn threat is the only familiar thing I’ve dealt with since arriving at Vigil’s Keep. Everything has been an adjustment since I left the circle. Life at the Circle of Magi is the same day lived over and over with little variation—the same faces, the same routine, even the same food. There is no routine here, and I constantly feel two steps behind and never able to catch up._

_I’ve taken to walking the battlements at night. When asked, I explain it as a need to take the air or check our defenses or some other pathetic excuse, but the truth is I simply can’t sleep. Everyone expects so much of me, and I’m terrified of disappointing them._

_I tried working myself to exhaustion, and I’ve made quite a nuisance of myself bothering everyone in the keep and asking them to teach me something or other that might occupy my mind and body. The wardens and the guardsmen are used to seeing me in the lists, but Mistress Woolsey is forever trying to evict me from the kitchen, and the forge, stables, kennels, and anywhere else it is inappropriate for an arlessa to spend her time. I thought it was rather fitting for a Ferelden arl to be covered in mabari fur, but Mistress Woolsey disagrees. Thus far I’ve shown an aptitude for baking and working with the hounds, but I proved to be a poor blacksmith apprentice and worse horsemaster. It appears that the horses share Mistress Woolsey’s disapproval of mabari fur. She has been less than gentle in her urging that I take up more appropriate hobbies like needlework or painting. I may learn the basics simply to needlepoint something rude to discourage her from pressing the subject further._

_I hope that your mission is going well. I know that you’re doing the Maker’s work, and as always, I have faith in you. I wish I could be there with you, but as I said before, I don’t want my Nightingale or my Crow to share my gilded cage. Though this particular cage is quite lovely and the bed is certainly large enough for the three of us and a few guests._

_All My Love,_

_Brenna_


	5. Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen delivers aid to the refugees, and also receives a gift from Brenna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for implied assault in the Kinloch flashback.

_The history section of the apprentice library was almost always empty—the collection tended toward dry, plodding accounts of ancient history that blamed the evils of society squarely on magic and mages. Most apprentices viewed reading said books as punishment at best, and the templars hated the boring assignment of monitoring the deserted area, which made it perfect for clandestine chess games._

_Cullen studied Apprentice Brenna from his assigned observation point while she studied the game board. Her brow furrowed as she worried the frayed edge of her right sleeve, and he recognized the distracted gesture as one of her tells. Cullen had stumped her, but she was too clever for it to last. He had learned a wealth of new strategies from their games, and she always explained her moves when asked, unlike his sister, Mia, who had preferred to tease him after a loss until he threatened to stop playing future matches with her._

_“Do you yield?” He pitched his voice low—loud enough for her to catch, but not loud enough to be overheard by the library’s other occupants. The other sections of the library were well populated with apprentices discussing theory and whatnot._

_She scowled in silent reply._

_“There’s no dishonor in admitting defeat,” he said._

_“I am not defeated. I am strategizing.”_

_“Really? From here it looks as though you’re in check.” Cullen suppressed a smirk, but then his attention was drawn to the history section’s entrance as Knight-Lieutenant Geoffrey passed it for the third time. Geoffrey’s presence didn’t seem out of place at a glance, but Cullen always memorized the week’s duty assignments, and the knight-lieutenant was supposed to be patrolling the senior enchanters’ quarters._

_Apprentice Brenna moved her queen and glanced up to see Cullen’s reaction. She followed his gaze and spotted Knight-Lieutenant Geoffrey just before he moved out of view, and the blood drained from her face._

_“Are you unwell?” Cullen asked, alarmed._

_She started to reply, but then her lips pressed in a thin line as though she had swallowed her words and found them sour._

_“Is something wrong?” he prompted._

_Apprentice Brenna regarded him with the same scrutiny she did the chessboard. After a long moment she inclined her head in a slight nod. “What time does your shift end?”_

_“At seven bells.”_

_“Would you please escort me to my dormitory then?”_

_His brow rose—her request went against their agreement that kept clandestine chess_ clandestine _, as being seen together was the exact sort of thing they meant to avoid. In theory, there should be no real trouble in the two of them engaging in something as simple as a chess game. In practice, however, it would be frowned upon by their superiors, and they would both be disciplined for it._

_She looked away and fidgeted with the white knight she had captured, rolling the piece between her fingers as she stared toward the section’s entrance. Her entire posture was tense as a bowstring, as though she expected a monster to round the corner at any moment._

_Perhaps she did. Much to his disgust, Cullen knew that some knights abused the power they held over the mages in their care. He hadn’t realized that Brenna might be one of those victims._

_“Has he harmed you?” Cullen asked._

_“Not yet.” Her shoulders drooped as though resigned to her fate._

_Anger flashed through him like a blast of heat. “Have you reported him?”_

_Brenna’s attention snapped back to him and she shook her head. “No. Please don’t. It makes it worse, and I am handling it.”_

_Cullen’s teeth ground, but he forced himself to nod. After a few calming breaths he nodded again. “I would be happy to escort you to your dormitory.”_

_“Thank you.” Her hands rested in her lap, but she clutched the white knight like a talisman. “It’s your move.”_

***

“Oi, Cullen!”

He looked up from his morning meal and blinked at his roommate, Raleigh, as he wove through the crowded mess hall. “Aren’t you on duty?”

“Just coming off my shift. But first, this is an official delivery. Looks like it’s from your sweetheart.” Raleigh dropped into the spot beside Cullen and set a small parcel on the table. “There. Now I’m off duty.”

“Cullen’s got a sweetheart?” Knight-Corporal Nadia asked. “Do tell.”

“A grey warden sweetheart.” Raleigh nudged Cullen and continued before he could argue. “There’s more waiting for you at the dock. You’d best see to it before the commander hears about it.”

 _More_? The aid for the refugees—he’d been so busy that he had almost forgotten about it. “I can’t, my shift—”

“I’ll cover you.” Knight-Corporal Nadia grinned. Like Cullen, Nadia had recently transferred to Kirkwall. She was small in stature but fierce as a mabari. “You can buy us a round and tell us all about it later.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Raleigh said.

Cullen smirked. “You’ll drink to anything.”

The other knights at the table laughed and Raleigh nodded. “Specially when someone else is buying. Go on, off with you.” He slid Cullen’s half-eaten bowl of porridge in front of him to finish it.

“Thanks.” Cullen picked up the package and retreated. He peered at it for a moment once he was alone in the hall—books, perhaps, judging by the size, shape and weight. Interesting. A letter tied atop it bore the griffon seal of the wardens. He resisted the urge to open the package and read the letter now, and he paused to stow them inside his quarters on the way to the docks.

Cullen squinted in the bright morning light—there had been muttering among the templars about the possibility of a storm approaching, but thus far the weather had remained clear and warm. Too warm, in his opinion. A ship flying Amaranthine colors waited, and the templars on duty waved Cullen on, indicating that the ship had already been cleared after being inspected for apostates and magical contraband.

A young man waited at the bottom of the ship’s gangway and stared owlishly at the slave statues flanking the Gallows. He had the look of a squire, but Cullen didn’t recognize the heraldry.

“You have something for me?” Cullen asked.

The squire flinched, startled. “Knight-Captain Cullen? Oh, good. The arlessa sent me to help you deliver the shipment. This is the manifest.” He thrust a piece of parchment toward Cullen as though eager to be rid of it.

“Thank you. And you are?”

“Sorry, ser. I’m Perry.”

“Just Perry?”

“Yes, ser. I’m training to join the Vigil’s soldiers. Her ladyship said travel would be a good experience for me. See somewhere new and all. But this sailing business is just awful.” Perry grimaced, and Cullen nodded with sympathy.

“Never found your sea legs?”

“No, ser.”

“Neither did I.” Cullen scanned the manifest and recognized Brenna’s precise penmanship. The list was impressive—she had collected far more than he expected, which explained why she had sent help to deliver it. “You have experience transporting cargo?”

“Yes, ser. Worked on the Amaranthine docks all my life.” He stood taller, clearly proud of that achievement. “If you’re ready the captain’s anxious to continue on to the city proper. Got a schedule to keep.”

“Of course.”

It was a quick trip from the Gallows to the Kirkwall docks, but it wasn’t a journey Cullen was fond of. The choppy water made for queasy passage, and the docks themselves had a peculiar smell that seemed to be comprised of sea spray, dead fish and tar that was made worse during hot weather. Perry looked a bit green but chatted away, alternately peppering Cullen with questions about the Free Marches and answering Cullen’s questions about how Ferelden fared after the Blight—and also about how Brenna fared as the arlessa.

“Mostly her ladyship’s been chasing down those new darkspawn,” Perry said. “But she’s also been repairing the Vigil. And recruiting new wardens. She’s always doing something. The captain says it’s because her ladyship is avoiding Mistress Woolsey.”

“Mistress Woolsey?”

“The wardens sent her to help her ladyship manage the arling. She’s ancient and she looks like she was born grumpy.”

When the ship reached the docks Perry recruited a member of its crew to find a reliable wagon and driver, along with a few men to load and unload the crates. Perry was an energetic blur who barked orders, and Cullen was content to stand back and watch him work.

The last few weeks—months now, he silently corrected in surprise—had been an ongoing lesson in how sheltered his life had been at Kinloch. His entire world had consisted of the tower and a few spots within a handful of miles of it, like the Spoiled Princess or the occasional trip to Redcliffe. Having the entire city of Kirkwall at his doorstep presented a variety of unfamiliar distractions and temptations. If nothing else, the strangeness of it all was a constant reminder that he was not in Kinloch, and that seemed to keep some of the nightmares at bay—some, but not all. Loud noises or raised voices caused him to break out in a cold sweat, and after a restless night he woke with phantom pains, as though the torments of his night terrors had dragged on into the daylight.

When the wagon was loaded it was Cullen’s turn to take charge and lead the way to Lirene’s shop in Lowtown. The streets buzzed with activity—if Denerim was a beehive, then Kirkwall was an anthill, or perhaps a termite mound.

Perry gaped up at Hightown. “People really live way up there?”

“Yes. The chantry’s there, too,” Cullen said.

“What’s it like?”

“Big and fancy.”

Perry frowned. “The Amaranthine chantry is sort of fancy. Not too big, though. And it’s so quiet in there you could hear a mouse fart.”

Cullen laughed as Perry grinned. Further discussion of chantries was halted as they arrived at Lirene’s Ferelden Imports. Perry darted inside to inform the shopkeeper that she had a delivery.

Lirene emerged and eyed the wagon with cautious hope. “What’s all this, then?”

“The supplies you requested.” Cullen handed Lirene the manifest and her jaw dropped as she read it.

“Her ladyship says she’ll try to send more,” Perry said. “But we’ve had trouble with darkspawn attacking caravans. The wardens have cleared out a lot, but somehow there’s always more.” Perry shrugged. “Keeps them busy, it does.”

“Her ladyship?” Lirene repeated the words as though they were foreign to her.

“Arlessa Brenna, the warden commander.” Perry grinned.

Lirene turned to Cullen in dazed disbelief. “You mean you really know the Hero of Ferelden?”

“They write each other,” Perry said before Cullen could answer. “She even named her mabari after him.” Cullen shot the lad a sour glance for speaking out of turn, and Perry blushed. “Sorry, ser.”

Lirene nodded slowly, a calculating gleam in her eye, but then she snapped to attention. “Well don’t just stand there, you lot. Get to work!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Perry whirled and began directing the hired men on what to unload first.

The shop became increasingly crowded as word of the delivery spread, and the gathering took on the feel of a wintersend celebration. Crates were cracked open to reveal a bounty of blankets, food stuffs, toys, clothing, boots, and more. Though the press of so many people made him anxious, the work was undeniably satisfying. 

It was near dusk by the time the last items had been handed out and the crowd dispersed.

“You did well,” Lirene said. Cullen had the impression that it was high praise from her. “We could use a bit of help around here. Templars get days of rest, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“You should come by then.” Lirene folded her arms and nodded, as though she considered the matter settled. Cullen thought the woman had missed her calling—she would have made a fair knight-commander, and a better revered mother.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Come on, Perry. Let’s get you back to your ship.”

“Yes, ser.”

***

“So what did she send you?” Raleigh peered over Cullen’s shoulder as he unwrapped the package from Brenna. Cullen would save the letter for later, when his nosy roommate left for his shift, but he knew there was no hiding the package’s contents.

“Books.” Cullen ran his fingers over the spines of the leather-bound books.

“What kind? Bawdy stories?” Raleigh asked.

“Of course not. Two volumes of Orlesian chess strategies, and one about Ferelden military history.”

Raleigh shook his head in mock-disgust and flopped into his bunk. “You’re right, then. She’s not your sweetheart.”

Cullen chuckled but didn’t reply—on the contrary, Brenna’s choices revealed thoughtful understanding of his character. The only other person in the world who would think to give him such a gift was his sister Mia.

“You need more fun in your life, lad.”

“I suspect that you and I have quite different definitions of fun.”

“Suit yourself,” Raleigh said. “Don’t forget you owe us a round at the pub.”

“I’m sure Nadia will remind me.”

***

_To Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

_The Gallows, Kirkwall_

_My apologies for taking so long to send aid. The darkspawn problem in Amaranthine continues to worsen and several caravans were attacked. I fear things will get worse before this is over._

_Despite these troubles, or perhaps because of them, my companions and I have found a respite in organizing the Vigil’s library. I came across these titles and thought of you. I hope that you enjoy them. My challenge for you is to find someone to use these new chess strategies against, if you haven’t already found a worthy opponent to play. I’m afraid I haven’t found a player of great skill at the Vigil, and I miss the challenge._

_I received a report that the situation in South Reach is improving. All of Ferelden was touched by the Blight, though some areas fared better than others. If your family is having trouble there, they are welcome in Amaranthine once the darkspawn matter is settled._

_Sincerely,_

_Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_

***

_To Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_

_Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine_

_Enclosed please find a letter from Mistress Lirene and a number of refugees who wished to thank you for your generous aid. I would also like to express my gratitude for upholding my good name in delivering on the promised supplies, and also for providing Perry’s assistance in transporting the cargo. He proved to be quite capable. I’m not certain how he would fare as a soldier, but he would make a solid quartermaster._

_I am grateful for the books, and for the invitation for my family. I will pass it on to them._

_Mistress Lirene has conscripted me into aiding refugees on the days I am off duty, which brings me to my challenge for you. Through this new work I have found a degree of peace in performing small acts of kindness. Performing a task like this may aid you as you struggle with your duties as arlessa and warden-commander. It is a reminder that not everything revolves around battle._

_Sincerely,_

_Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos! I'm having fun writing this. :) I promise I'm getting to the smut soon...


	6. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden-Commander deals with the aftermath of defeating The Mother and her Children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time jump! Now it's just after the final battle in Awakening.
> 
> CW for PTSD, anxiety attacks, and mentions of torture.
> 
> The opening flashback contains a bit of Anora's dialogue from DA:O.

_Brenna had expected that rescuing the queen would be a difficult task, but she hadn’t been prepared for the detour through Arl Howe’s torture chambers. The sights, the sounds, the smells—everything was too reminiscent of the worst abuses she had endured at Kinloch Hold. Her horror had likely influenced her decision to fight their way out of the manor. A civilized person would have surrendered and accepted the consequences. Not Brenna, who was so steeped in memories by that point that she had practically been shaking with the need to unleash her rage on someone. Ser Cauthrien and her men proved to be suitable targets._

_Brenna would never surrender again. She was never going back._

_After, when they had returned to Arl Eamon’s home, Zevran and Leliana whisked Brenna away before the battle fatigue set in. They had taken care of her after the fiasco at the circle, where every moment of their mission to rescue First Enchanter Irving seemed specially crafted to drive her into a shrieking, shaking stupor. Brenna had little memory of her collapse at camp, but she remembered waking up between her nightingale and her crow as they held her and murmured words of comfort, assuring her that everything would be all right._

_Hollow promises, but they had helped nonetheless._

_This episode was shorter, and Leliana speculated that might be a sign that Brenna was healing. That, or she was becoming numb to the trauma. Either way, the faster recovery allowed her to meet with Anora that evening._

_Unlike Brenna, who felt as though her frayed nerves had been dragged behind a stampeding bronto, the queen appeared calm and composed._

_“Hello again, Warden. It is good that you came to speak with me. I realize that my...actions at the Howe estate may not have painted me in the best light. For that I apologize, and hope that we can start again.”_

_Brenna’s brow rose but she refrained from comment. Instead, the room’s chessboard caught her attention, and she decided to choose the field for their battle. Without a word Brenna took the chair behind the black set and looked expectantly at Anora._

_“Oh, I’m not very good at—”_

_Brenna cut her off. “Yes you are. You are the only child of a war hero, and, as I understand it, you are the real political power behind the crown. You’re a strategist.”_

_The queen’s brow furrowed as though she was torn between being offended and impressed. Brenna didn’t care. Oh, she was well aware of the fact that she_ should _care—even a queen who was indebted to her was still a queen, and royalty were rarely known for their compassion or understanding. It was simply that she didn’t feel much of anything at the moment. She had prepared for this conversation by shrouding herself in stoic detachment, an ability that she developed during her time in the Circle. Brenna could survive anything when she was properly numbed._

_Even this._

_The queen’s chin rose a notch as she primly sat across from Brenna. Anora pondered the board for a moment before making her opening move. “Are all grey wardens so...?”_

_“Rude?”_

_“Forthright?”_

_“Yes. Darkspawn aren’t concerned with the trappings of polite society.” Brenna moved a pawn and focused on her opponent’s reaction. She made a mental note to ask Leliana more about about her time as a bard. Brenna was well versed in reading mages and templars, but the outside world still felt foreign to her._

_“And grey wardens are not supposed to involve themselves in the trappings of political matters, yet here you are.” Anora countered with a bold move, and Brenna paused to contemplate the various strategies the queen could be initiating. It would be a mistake to assume she relied only on Ferelden techniques—every military history Brenna had read espoused the importance of understanding one’s enemy. As such, Orlesian methodology could also be in play. Brenna had studied both, and many more._

_“It’s more accurate to say that political matters involved themselves with me. I was conscripted to fight darkspawn, nothing more. The Blight is my primary concern. But when we learned of your plight I couldn’t leave you to Arl Howe’s_ mercies _.” The word was sour in her mouth as she moved. “At least you had the benefit of a guest room. The rest of his guests were far less fortunate.”_

_“I understand.” Anora reached for another piece._

_“No, you don’t,” Brenna said. Anora paused mid-motion with the white pawn in hand. “You haven’t been tortured. I have. I understand what those prisoners endured. That they experienced such horrors at the hands of an arl who is the main advisor to the regent is a fact I cannot and will not ignore, warden or not.”_

_Anora completed her move. “Very well. However, Arl Howe’s crimes do not necessitate you interfering with the landsmeet, which I understand you and your fellow warden are doing._

_“I prefer to think of it as bringing the truth to light.” Brenna captured a pawn and set it beside the board._

_“Your version of the truth.” Advance._

_“However you decide to tell the story, it doesn’t change the fact that our forces were slaughtered at Ostagar. And that loss set off a chain of events that in turn has slaughtered countless innocent civilians.” Advance. “You did not see the terror in the faces of the people in Lothering who were abandoned when the rest of the army marched past them without leaving even a single soldier for their defense.”_

_Anora stilled and her downcast gaze fixed on the board. Brenna had purposely not mentioned Anora’s husband, the king, who was also a victim of that betrayal. Did it pain her to know that her own father was responsible for Cailan’s death? Or did she believe Loghain’s lies?_

_“Then I will be...forthright,” Anora said. “Your voice will be a strong one in the days to come. It is to you that Eamon listens, and with good reason.”_

_“I appreciate the flattery, but I doubt you know enough about me to determine the value of my counsel,” Brenna said. “I’m not even Ferelden. I’m a Marcher. I was brought here against my will at 8 years old to live at Kinloch Hold. My treatment there does not endear me to your kingdom, and my treatment since becoming a warden has not been much better. Yet that hasn’t stopped me from doing everything in my power to combat the Blight, and it would be shortsighted not to plan for the kingdom’s future while doing so. It’s in our best interests to work together.”_

_“Together we can do what alone we cannot.” Anora nodded. “I’m listening.”_

_A small victory—this was just the opening salvo. She started small with minor intrigues that she had learned along the way. Which banns could be swayed, and how to influence a few who wouldn’t easily bend. Brenna waited until the game was nearly over to launch her true offensive—the battle that would break her heart. A quiver of anguish hummed through her chest, and she breathed deep to maintain her calm._

_Ferelden needed a king. And a mage could never be queen. This was the way it needed to be—it was a truth that Brenna had known since the moment she learned that Alastair was Marric’s bastard son, and that crushed her dreams of a life with him. Brenna accepted that Zevran would return to Antiva, and Leliana would return to Orlais, but she had imagined spending the rest of her days as a warden with Alastair at her side. Until Arl Eamon decided to call the landsmeet and put him forth as the new king. Now she knew that if they were fortunate enough to survive the Blight, she would be alone again._

_Ferelden needed a king, and that king needed a queen well versed in the politics of the realm. Anora was perfect for that. Neither party would be happy about the match, but great responsibility came with the crown. As a circle mage, Brenna was well versed in the teaching that the greater good was more important than individual desires._

_It was for the best._

***

Muscles that Brenna hadn’t even known existed in her body ached with each step, but there was comfort in pain. The living felt pain, the dead did not, and the darkspawn horde had left plenty of death in its wake.

“We need horses,” Nathaniel said. Brenna flinched, startled by the break in the relative silence—the only sounds for the past hour had been the tread of their boots trudging along the road home and the clank of weapons and armor.

“Horses startle around darkspawn,” she said. “You spend half a day chasing them down, if the spawn don’t kill them outright.”

“You know what doesn’t startle around darkspawn? Brontos,” Sigrun said.

Nathaniel stroked the stubble lining his jaw. “We would make quite the entrance.”

“Do brontos fare well on the surface?” Brenna asked.

Sigrun grinned. “Only one way to find out.”

Brenna shook her head and managed a weak chuckle. Her throat was dry from road dust and tight as though it was being squeezed by an unseen hand, and her eyes stung with tears she stubbornly refused to shed. _She failed_. She failed the people she had sworn to protect.

At least they saved the city. Amaranthine was beautiful but poorly defended, so when the moment came to choose to defend the city or return to Vigil’s Keep, Brenna decided to save as many civilians as possible. She had faith that the Vigil would hold. Vigil’s Keep was prepared—they had spent after months fortifying its defenses and equipping its soldiers with better arms and armor as they underwent rigorous training. But as her weary wardens returned home, she prayed that there was still a home awaiting them, and that she wouldn’t have to bury the friends they left behind.

 _So much death_. From the day she left the Circle her life had been filled with blood, battle, monsters, and loss. The skies ahead were filled with smoke from funeral pyres and the scent of decay and charred flesh carried on the wind. If the Maker was kind, the spawn were burning and not her soldiers.

Aside from the pyres, the situation seemed vaguely encouraging as they approached the keep. The outer walls were heavily damaged but they still stood, and Brenna could hear the sounds of activity within the keep. A handful of watchmen were stationed along the road, and they waved the group onward. They split when they reached the courtyard, each person bent on their own business. Brenna’s spine straightened as the role of commander slipped over her like a cloak. 

“Captain Garavel,” she greeted. “Report.”

The man nodded, his mouth pressed in a grim line. “We took heavy casualties, but the Vigil held. The darkspawn never made it past the wall, though it was a near thing. Another day or two and they would have breached it.”

“I’m sure Voldrik has a thing or two to say about that.”

“Aye, Commander. He’s already drawing up plans for repairs and reconstruction.”

The corners of her mouth twitched in a smile. “Is the seneschal in the main hall?”

“No. He didn’t make it.”

 _Damn._ Varel had been in a weakened state as he recovered from taking a crossbow bolt meant for her. The wound might have killed him outright if there hadn’t been two healers in the room, and his condition hadn’t been hearty enough to survive the siege. Varel was a good man and a valued advisor, and Brenna would make sure that he was properly honored.

“Mistress Woolsey?” she asked.

“She’s fine. Tough old bird is too stubborn to die.” Garavel smiled wryly and Brenna barked a quick laugh.

“True. We’ll meet later to go over matters in more detail. As you were, Captain.”

“Aye, Commander.” He turned but paused. “It’s good to have you back, my lady.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

She was approached by a few others on her way to the infirmary, but once she arrived there Anders was easy to spot thanks to his height and golden hair. Brenna made a beeline to him and caught him in a crushing hug.

“Oof! Missed you too, Bren.” He brushed a kiss atop her head—brave man, for she was certain darkspawn blood and gore coated her scalp. “Please don’t break my ribs.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled against his coat.

“You can let go now.”

“No. Really can’t.”

Anders tilted her face up to meet his gaze. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “We’re still here. Oh, you were right.” He grinned, and her brow furrowed.

“Of course I was. What was I right about?”

Anders pointed behind her, and Brenna turned and squealed with joy when she spotted Zevran in the doorway. She bolted toward him and he caught and spun her before her momentum knocked them both to the ground. She threw her arms around him and kissed him until they were forced to come up for air.

“Why aren’t you ever that happy to see me?” Anders asked with a mock pout.

“Though you are quite charming, dear Anders, you do not have the benefit of a beautiful Antivan accent,” Zevran replied.

“It’s true.” Brenna laid her head on Zevran’s shoulder and closed her eyes as she indulged in the familiar comfort.

“That seems unfair,” Anders said. 

“Agreed,” Zevran agreed. “It is indeed unfair that not everyone can hail from Antiva.”

Brenna smiled. “When did you arrive?”

“I was fortunate to arrive before the horde,” Zevran said. “And, as an expert in slaying darkspawn, I was essential to our victory. You may celebrate my heroics later.”

“Gladly,” she said.

“Well, brave hero,” Anders said, “since you’re not injured then the two of you can continue your reunion away from my infirmary.”

“How is it your infirmary?” she asked.

“Do you want to take over my shift?”

“No.”

“Then it’s my infirmary.”

“Point taken.” Brenna sighed and stepped back. “I have more people to speak with.”

Zevran smiled. “Then I will accompany you.”

Zevran followed Brenna like a silent shadow as she made the rounds of the keep, checking in with her remaining advisors and staff. The fact that Zevran was quiet and not delivering his usual quippy commentary should have alerted her that something was amiss, but her thoughts were spinning as she struggled to process all the tasks that needed her attention. Occasionally she felt a gentle touch on her arm or a brush of his hand against hers to ground her before she could unravel. 

Tingling pinpricks marched up and down her arms in waves as cold settled into her hands. Her heart raced as though she faced a high dragon, and she struggled to focus as a fuzzy ringing began in her ears. Finally Zevran took her arm and steered her to her room, where he nudged her into the chair before her dressing table.

“You are still with me, _querida_?” Zevran knelt and tugged her boots off.

“I’m cold.” Brenna shivered and rubbed her hands together for warmth.

“I know, my dear. This will pass soon, and then we will rest.” He continued to remove her armor as her teeth began to chatter. His head snapped up as he reacted to someone in the doorway—she was too exhausted to turn to see who he addressed. “Battle fatigue. She needs hot tea and something to eat, if you please.”

“It’s not.” Brenna frowned. “Just cold in here.”

“Of course I do agree that Ferelden is much too cold, but in this instance, I fear that is not the cause.” He placed the pieces of her armor on its stand. “Here, we will sit in front of the fire until Anders returns.”

Zevran guided her to the sofa and then wrapped a blanket around her. He embraced her as the shaking worsened, murmuring calming words as the last thread of her control snapped and the emotions burst like a dam. She gasped for air as her throat tightened and her vision blurred.

_My fault. It’s my fault. I failed. I failed and they’ll send me back to the circle..._

A cup of tea pressed to her lips finally pierced the fog, and she managed a few sips before coughing. The tea was too hot and too sweet, but both details anchored her. The cup was placed in her hands once the shaking subsided, and she wrapped her icy fingers around it and absorbed the warmth. When her vision focused she spotted Anders kneeling before her, watching her with concern.

“You’re all right,” Anders assured her. “You had an attack.”

“Oh.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember the last time she had one that severe—in Denerim, while she was recovering from killing the Archdemon.

“When was the last time you slept?” Anders asked.

“What day is today?” she asked. Zevran chuckled and she leaned into him.

Anders sighed and shook his head, appearing as exhausted as she felt. “Right then. Finish your tea, eat your sweetroll, and sleep for at least eight hours. That’s an order.”

Her brow furrowed. “You can’t give me orders.”

“Of course I can,” he said brightly. “I’m the Vigil’s healer, and you’re in the Vigil.”

“I need to wash my hair first. It’s full of darkspawn blood.”

“I would be happy to aid you in that task,” Zevran said.

“You just want to see me naked.”

“Always, my dear Warden.” He kissed her cheek, and she smiled.

“Eight of hours of uninterrupted sleep before any naked acrobatics,” Anders said.

Brenna peered at him. “Acrobatics?”

Anders grinned. “I did say you were right, if you recall.”

“Your taste in mage companions has greatly improved,” Zevran said.

Brenna smiled. “Well, you can tell me all about your acrobatic adventures after I’ve had my eight hours of sleep.”

“I’m certain we can arrange for a demonstration.” Zevran grinned, and Anders sighed and rose. “Later, of course. Healer’s orders.”

***

_—A,_

_Good news: the darkspawn are dead. Bad news: they broke most of the Vigil and parts of the arling before dying._

_—B_

***

_To Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

_The Gallows, Kirkwall_

_I apologize for the tardiness of my reply. I hope that things are faring well in Kirkwall. Is Mistress Lirene still giving you trouble? She means well, and from what I gather from her letters and yours it sounds as though the source of her ill temper is due to an overprotective nature. In short, she is afraid that if she doesn’t threaten you after each visit you won’t be properly motivated to return, and the children would sorely miss their chess instructor._

_My late response is due to the defeat of the darkspawn that plagued Amaranthine. While our victory is good news, it came at a high price. The spawn damaged a good deal of the arling while the bulk of the horde besieged the Vigil. The defenses held, but we lost many good soldiers. Voldrik says it will take years to restore the keep, so I won’t want for things to keep me busy for the foreseeable future._

_Seneschal Varel was among the fallen, which leaves me without an advisor and without my main chess partner. I don’t suppose you’re amenable to transferring to Amaranthine to fill that vacancy?_

_Sincerely,_

_Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be solely an Amell/Zevran/Anders menage.
> 
> Also, funny story, I've played through DA:O well over 20 times (possibly 30 by now), and until I poked around the DA wiki I had no idea you could actually surrender to Ser Cauthrien and then escape from Fort Drakon, because I was 100% all about killing her every time. Not sorry.


	7. Life is for the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders, Zevran, and the Warden Commander celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a short Anders/Zevran/Female Amell menage. Plot returns in the next chapter. 😉

It took several days for Brenna to recover physically and mentally from the battle, and the unending list of tasks that needed seeing to only drained her further. Everyone in the Vigil was similarly occupied as they struggled to restore some sense of normalcy. Repairs, supplies, reports—it was exhausting, and left little time for romantic rendezvous. One morning she woke to the pleasant sight of Zevran thrusting into Anders, but the fact that she had slept through their foreplay and most of the sex only confirmed how overfatigued she was.

Finally, a week later, Brenna, Anders, and Zevran had a night to themselves, and they celebrated with a few bottles of wine liberated from the keep’s cellar.

Anders quirked an eyebrow as he refilled his cup. “So, if I’m understanding this correctly, when you weren’t battling the Blight, you were having orgies at your camp?”

“Not orgies, precisely. I think.” Seated at the dressing table, Brenna combed out her hair before plaiting it in a simple sleeping braid. “How many participants are necessary to qualify as an orgy?”

“A standard orgy, or an Orlesian orgy?” Zevran countered, sprawled in a chair in front of the fire. Anders had taken the chair across from him, and the low table between them was littered with empty wine bottles.

“There’s more than one kind?” Anders asked.

“Orlesians.” Zevran shrugged. “Always over complicating things. But I believe only one occasion could be defined as an orgy.”

“With Captain Isabella. You’ve met her,” Brenna reminded Anders. The captain visited Amaranthine on occasion, and Brenna made certain to call on her when she did.

“Ohh...yes, that makes sense then.” Anders scratched the stubble along his jaw. “Still, it was the two of you and a woman, so you’re not accustomed to a man as your third.”

“Correct,” Brenna said, “but the pair of you are a joy to watch.”

Zevran grinned. “She does have a weakness for beautiful blondes.”

“Thank you?” Anders’ brow furrowed as though pondering whether he qualified as _beautiful_.

“You both discussed your rules before?” she asked. Zevran had introduced her to the importance of knowing your partner’s boundaries ahead of time. It helped avoid any unfortunate flashbacks to her time in the Circle.

“Of course,” Zevran said. “And we are familiar with yours as well.”

“Excellent. Go on, then. I’ll join you after I’ve conquered my hair.” Brenna frowned at her reflection. She had been debating cutting her hair and freeing herself from the fuss of tending it, but she was used to the routine.

Zevran wasted no time in setting his drink down and pouncing on Anders, whose startled gasp was muffled by Zevran’s eager kisses. Brenna grinned as she watched them in the mirror. Beautiful was definitely the correct term for them, if she did say so herself.

Zevran tugged Anders’ head back and bared his throat for a bruising love bite. If the men hadn’t volunteered the information that they had enjoyed each other’s company before her return, the fading marks on Anders’ neck would have been an obvious clue to their activities. Brenna teased her crow that the marks were like his signature— _Zevran Arainai was here_.

They fumbled with each other’s remaining clothes. Anders tugged off Zevran’s shirt, and Zevran freed the mage’s cock from his breeches and took him into his mouth. Brenna’s soft moan echoed Anders’ as she watched Zevran’s golden head bobbing in Anders’ lap. She bit her bottom lip as heat coiled within her—after leaving the Circle she hadn’t had the pleasure of watching such a sight until now. The only night both Zevran and Alastair had joined her was the evening aboard Captain Isabella’s ship, and Alastair had made it clear that he was only interested in female attention.

Brenna closed her eyes and focused on the sounds of Anders’ rough breathing mixed with Zevran’s soft, hungry moans. She shivered, and then she quickly finished taming her hair into its braid. She stripped before approaching them.

“My turn.” She stood before the fire and beckoned for them to join her. “You’re both wearing too much clothing.”

“You are quite right, _querida_.” Zevran rose and stepped away to shed his remaining clothes.

Brenna knelt on the rug and patted the spot before her. “Kneel here, Anders.”

“Yes, Commander.” He grinned as he complied, and she mock-scowled at him.

“Brat.” She lowered her head and licked the length of his shaft, earning a moan in response.

She felt Zevran’s hands on her hips as he positioned her, and she moaned around Anders’ cock as Zevran thrust into her sex. _Maker_. She had missed him. Anders gently threaded his fingers through her hair—they both disliked having their hair pulled—as he thrust into her mouth.

Brenna planted one hand on the floor to steady herself as Zevran took up a steady pace, and she wrapped her other hand around the base of Anders’ cock as she licked, sucked, and teased him with her mouth. Pleasure built as they moved together and found a rhythm that had them all moaning their approval.

“Enough,” Anders warned. Brenna drew away—she knew not to press him, and she braced herself with both hands as Zevran’s grip tightened.

“Sweet, or rough?” Zevran asked her.

Brenna licked her lips and swallowed hard. This was the purpose setting rules beforehand—under the right circumstances, and with the right partner, Brenna enjoyed a bit of pain with her pleasure. Zevran was well acquainted with her boundaries.

“Rough,” she said.

“As you wish.”

Zevran grabbed her hair and pulled her back onto his lap. One hand fisted in her hair, and she cried out as he bit the skin where her throat and shoulder met. Zevran covered the side of her throat with bruising, suctioning kisses, and his other hand slipped from her hip to her sex. He stroked her clit as she thrust against him, riding his cock.

Anders moved close and cupped her breasts. He leaned in and kissed her, devouring her cries as he pinched her nipples. The climax built within her as the two men pinned her between them, stroking, sucking, and thrusting until the sensations overwhelmed her. Brenna came screaming, Zevran still hard and sheathed inside her as she calmed.

“Shall we move to the bed?” Brenna asked.

Anders grinned. “Absolutely.”


	8. Friend or Foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is determined to protect Kirkwall, even if it means forsaking his trust in Raleigh Samson.

“Here.” Raleigh tossed a bundle of letters at Cullen. “I’m bloody late.”

Cullen caught the correspondence—fortunately it had been tied with string, otherwise he would have been picking up letters from every corner of their quarters.

“You wouldn’t be late if you hadn’t stayed out all night drinking.” Seated at the writing desk, Cullen untied the letters and sorted through them. Two from Mia, three from Brenna—which likely meant that they were letters for him to deliver to Mistress Lirene and Sister Constance—and one was unmarked. He frowned and turned the missive over—it was sealed but the wax bore no signet.

“Well if you’d come with us you could’ve stopped me.” Raleigh cursed under his breath as he struggled to don his uniform. “Did you cover for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, kid. You’re a good one.”

Cullen shook his head in disapproval. Raleigh had been drinking more heavily and more often as of late. The next time the man was caught violating curfew he was likely to be whipped, but that wasn’t Cullen’s business. He was Raleigh’s roommate, not his nursemaid.

Today was Cullen’s rest day, though  _ rest _ was something of a misnomer considering that between Mistress Lirene and Sister Constance his day was sure to be filled with work. He didn’t mind—it was good work, and he found that he had fewer nightmares afterward. Maybe the anonymous letter was from Lirene, asking him to fetch something or other on his way to her shop.

He broke the seal but frowned at the unfamiliar writing—there were no names, only initials, and judging by its passionate prose the letter was clearly intended for someone else.

“Shit.” Raleigh snatched the page out of Cullen’s grasp. “That’s not yours.”

“I see that. It’s not yours either. I know your terrible penmanship well.” Cullen frowned as Raleigh crumpled the letter and shoved it into a belt pouch.

“It’s for a friend,” Raleigh said. “Leave it be.”

“How did your friend’s letter end up bundled with mine?”

“I said leave it,” he snapped. “The less you know, the better.”

The blood drained from Cullen’s face—there was only one reason Raleigh would be smuggling correspondence into the circle. “You’re carrying letters for a mage? Are you insane?”

Raleigh snorted. “Me? No. The knight commander, though, she’s a hair away from barking mad.”

“The knight commander is doing what’s necessary to protect the city and the circle.” Tensions had risen over the past few weeks. A few blood mages had been found in the city and killed, but it had been too late for the innocent people the mages had sacrificed in exchange for power. Knight-Commander Meredith tightened control over the circle mages in response to prevent the corruption from spreading to their ranks.

“Bullshit.” Raleigh waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no harm in letting a man write to his sweetheart. Your sweetheart’s a mage. How is it right for the pair of you to correspond but not for circle mages?”

Cullen sighed and swallowed the familiar retort that Brenna was not his sweetheart. “The difference is that the knight commander hasn’t ordered me to stop writing to Brenna, but she has ordered a hold on all correspondence with the circle until she is certain that there aren’t additional blood mages in the city.”

“I trust this one. He’s no blood mage.” Raleigh adjusted the fit of his armor.

“You can’t possibly know that.” Cullen flexed his hands to fight the tingling that pricked his skin. “Even the gentlest mages joined Uldred’s rebellion. And why are you hiding the letter if you’re so certain that there’s nothing wrong with it?”

“Just forget you saw it.” Raleigh sighed. “Trust me. I’ve been doing this longer than you have, and I know what I’m about.”

“Fine.” Cullen glared at his roommate’s back as the man hurried out of their quarters.

Of course it wasn’t fine. Raleigh didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. It didn’t matter that Raleigh had more years of service to the order, because he hadn’t witnessed the depths of depravity that blood mages were capable of as Cullen had. He swallowed hard as his stomach churned, and then he set his letters aside. He would worry about all of this later or he would be late as well.

As expected, Mistress Lirene had an abundance of work to occupy Cullen’s body, but his mind wandered. His thoughts itched with all the “what if”s that might have stopped the uprising at Kinloch. Knight-Commander Meredith was right to be cautious—these were uncertain times. Raleigh’s compassion could prove dangerous. The Fereldan refugees were vulnerable, and even a single abomination was capable of terrible damage. Dark visions of the families he had come to know being slaughtered like his fellow knights had been at Kinloch pressed against the edges of his thoughts, and by the end of the day his hands were shaking and a cold sweat coated his skin.

Cullen escorted Sister Constance back to the chantry, which was not his custom but he needed the quiet to think. The Kirkwall chantry was still too grand for his taste, but there was comfort in the familiar smoky scents of candles and incense and the soft song of the Chant. He knelt at the foot of Andraste’s statue, closed his eyes and prayed.

_ Maker, grant me peace from the nightmares of my past, that I may be free to do Your work... _

_ Andraste, grant me the wisdom to know friend from foe, so that I may protect myself and others from foul magics... _

“Ser Cullen? You seem troubled.”

He looked up in confusion at the speaker, but the accent allowed Cullen to place the man—Brother Sebastian, who occasionally accompanied Sister Constance to aid the refugees. He spoke with a lilting cadence that reminded Cullen of the few Dalish mages he had known, though he doubted that the brother would appreciate the comparison.

“Yes, I…” Cullen trailed off as he rubbed his eyes and frowned at the darkness outside the chantry’s windows. Had it truly grown so late? He hadn’t lost time like that in months.

“Do you need counsel?”

“It would appear so.”

“Here, walk with me. The sisters wish to close up for the night.” Brother Sebastian extended a hand to help him rise and Cullen took it. He ached from the day’s tasks—Sister Constance had him and a few other men up on ladders repairing the roof of a widow’s home. The trio of orphans who the widow had taken in had attempted to “help” throughout the process, which made the task take twice as long but the children meant well.

He followed Brother Sebastian out of the chantry and into the cool night air. The view was peaceful, and Cullen prayed that it remained that way. They moved to the side of the entrance and walked the length of one of the long terraces, and Cullen placed his hands on the stone railing and looked down into the empty courtyard below.

“I served the Fereldan circle during the blood mage uprising.” The words were difficult, as though speaking each one reopened a wound that had since scarred over. Cullen avoided the subject as much as possible, because even a casual mention could cause a wave of nightmares and episodes. “I was one of the few knights to survive. I’m not sure what you know of it.”

“A bit. Much of the story was overshadowed by tales of the Blight, but there was a great worry that other circles might also become corrupted.”

Cullen nodded stiffly. “It’s a valid concern. The things that happened were unspeakable. The circle here doesn’t understand what the knight commander is trying to prevent. They see her actions as an injustice, but they are necessary.”

“You fear a repeat of what happened in Ferelden.” It was not a question, and Cullen nodded again as his chest tightened.

“I saw peaceful mages who had been loyal to the Circle embrace blood magic. It is foolishness to trust that a mage is immune to temptation. I can’t help but think that if Knight-Commander Greagoir had instituted some of these same precautions perhaps the slaughter could have been prevented.”

“Your ordeal exemplified the importance of the work your Order is tasked with. The faithful must always stand vigilant against corruption and never falter.”

“Yes. Today I discovered that a knight I know well is breaking Knight-Commander Meredith’s rules by carrying letters for a circle mage. He asked me to forget what I learned and trust that he knows what he’s doing, but I can’t. He doesn’t see that what he believes to be kindness can be harmful.”

“It sounds as though you already know what you must do,” Brother Sebastian intoned.

“I know, but he’s a good man who means well. And he argued that I am guilty as well because I have been corresponding with Warden-Commander Amell, who was a circle mage before she was conscripted by the grey wardens.”

“The Hero of Ferelden?” Sebastian asked. “I doubt that anyone who was blessed with the privilege of rediscovering Andraste’s sacred ashes could become a malificar.”

“She is remarkable.” Cullen hadn’t thought of the matter in that light. As he recovered from his ordeal he focused on separating the memory of the false temptation that his tormentors had conjured from the reality of the woman who wrote him letters about her life in Amaranthine and sent shipments of shoes and blankets to the refugees.

“Thank you, Brother Sebastian. You’re right. I do know what I must do.”

The weakness of the knights of Kinloch Hold had contributed to its downfall. He couldn’t allow that to happen to the Kirkwall circle, even if it meant forsaking his trust in Raleigh Samson.

***

_ To Warden-Commander Brenna Amell _

_ Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine _

_ Congratulations on your victory against the darkspawn, and my condolences on the losses that resulted from the battle. Maker willing, Amaranthine will be spared of future troubles and granted time to heal, as will its arlessa.  _

_ I’m afraid that transferring to Amaranthine to be your chess partner is not the sort of request the Order is willing to approve, even for the Hero of Ferelden. Instead I will continue to include you in my prayers and hope that the Maker sends a suitable opponent your way. _

_ Tensions have increased in the city as of late. Several blood mages were found hiding among the refugees, and they sacrificed several innocent victims before they were caught. I worry for the refugees. I continue to do what I can to aid them, and Mistress Lirene and Sister Constance are grateful for your continued aid, but there is still so much suffering among the Fereldans here. I hate to think that my countrymen fled Ferelden due to monsters only to encounter new horrors in Kirkwall. _

_ I’m afraid I don’t have a challenge for you this time. I’ll attempt to come up with a doubly clever one for my next letter. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a bit stuck on this chapter wondering how I was going to convince Cullen to make the worst decision that is absolutely going to come back to bite him on multiple levels. And then it came to me--have him talk to Sebastian. 😉


	9. Before the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders prepares to leave for Kirkwall. Zevran spars with the Warden-Commander.

_“What are you waiting for?” Anders asked. He frowned at Brenna, confused, but she shook her head again._

_“Wait.” She rolled the quill between her fingers and the iridescent feather caught the light as it spun. If she had calculated correctly—and she was certain that she had—then the fruits of her labor should soon pay off._

_“I’ve been waiting, and I’m hungry.” Anders folded his arms and pouted._

_“You’re always hungry.”_

_“And you’re not helping that predicament.”_

_Brenna smirked but didn’t reply. Across the great room Knight-Lieutenant Geoffrey stood at his post and surveyed the assembled mages. On occasion she felt the weight of his regard, but she refused to let it affect her. His unwanted attention would no longer be a concern in a few moments’ time._

_Knight-Commander Greagoir entered, flanked by two templars. Brenna straightened and set the quill aside as the group marched toward Geoffrey. He paled—anyone would under the knight-commander’s regard—and Brenna smiled._

_“There,” she murmured to Anders. Like everyone else in the room, his attention was focused on the unfolding scene._

_“Come with us, Knight-Lieutenant,” Greagoir ordered._

_“Ser? Is something wrong?” The knight’s voice jumped a worried octave._

_“You have been accused of stealing from your brethren. I would rather discuss this matter somewhere less public.”_

_Like the dungeon, Brenna thought. Excellent._

_Geoffrey’s jaw dropped. “I would never!”_

_“Then how do you explain this?” Knight-Captain Rosalie held up a golden bangle. “This belongs to me. It was found in your quarters.”_

_That had been the tricky part of her plan. Stealing the items had been surprisingly simple—the knights did not expect a mage to steal their baubles, for whatever would a mage do with them? Circle mages had no need of money, their possessions were searched on a regular basis, and any idiot foolish enough to wear stolen jewelry would be immediately caught. Planting the evidence, now that had required a complex dance of memorizing schedules and patrol routes, and a good deal of luck._

_Knight-Lieutenant Geoffrey’s shock turned to anger as his face reddened. “Lies! I’ve never seen that before in my life.”_

_“Enough,” the knight-commander said. “You can come with us willingly, or we can restrain you.”_

_Geoffrey went willingly—at their core, bullies were cowards. After the group left Brenna shut her book and rose._

_“Now we can go to dinner.”_

_Anders studied her, his brow furrowed. “Did you…?”_

_Brenna smiled, but the expression was cold and sharp. “Strategy.”_

***

Anders stormed into Brenna’s office, slammed the door, and thrust a piece of parchment toward her. “This is madness! What has your templar been doing in Kirkwall?”

Brenna blinked as her brow rose. “Hello, darling. I’m feeling well, how are you?”

“Angry.” He scowled and flopped into an empty chair before her desk. “I’ve been writing Karl.”

“I know.”

“And he—wait, how do you know?”

“I know everything that goes on in Vigil’s Keep. It’s my job.” She shrugged and leaned back, setting her quill aside as she gave up on the report she had been writing. People had a habit of invading her office whenever she sat down to tackle the paperwork piling up on her desk. As expected, rebuilding the arling was a bureaucratic nightmare.

This particular information wasn’t much of a secret—after all, she had been the one who informed Anders that Karl was alive and well and living in the Gallows. Karl had been sent there while Anders was away during his last escape, which spared them both from the slaughter at Kinloch.

“Is Karl ill?” she asked.

“No, nothing like that. He says the knight-commander is turning the circle into a prison—”

“The Gallows is a prison. I know, I was there.” Though Brenna longed to remember her life in Kirkwall, her brief time spent in the Gallows before she was shipped to Ferelden was something she would gladly forget. Unfortunately the experience had been seared into her memory.

“More of a prison then,” he said. “Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances at court. And they’re using the rite of tranquility as punishment.”

“Punishment?” Brenna frowned—chantry law forbade using the rite on a mage who had passed their harrowing, so it seemed unlikely. Even the cruel bastards at Kinloch Hold hadn’t broken that rule. “First, Cullen is _a_ templar, not _my_ templar. His last letter mentioned that blood mages were found in the city, and that they were responsible for the deaths of several civilians. It must have caused a panic, and the knight commander is overcompensating to appease the populace.”

“ _Overcompensating_? She made a mage tranquil just for writing letters.” Anders shook the parchment at her again, and Brenna held her hand out.

“Either let me see that or stop waving it at me like a cleric giving a sermon.”

“It’s private.” Anders drew back and held the letter against his chest.

“Really?” Brenna quirked an eyebrow. “You do remember that I’ve witnessed the two of you doing a variety of—”

“That’s different,” he snapped, and she sighed. 

Karl preferred the attention of men, so while Brenna had never dallied with him she often played the part of lookout for him and Anders during their stolen moments together. She was fond of Karl, but to her he was a mentor who tutored her in spellwork and the occasional chess game. He meant much more to Anders, and her heart ached at his anguished expression. Anders hid the pain of his past beneath a carefree facade, and it was rare to see him so affected.

“I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. The templars are twitchy about any rumor of blood magic thanks to Uldred and his band of idiots, and they have reason to be. It was…”

“I know—.”

“No. You don’t. I’d rather fight a dozen ogres than battle blood mages.” She shook her head in disgust. “They were people we knew, Anders. Our friends. People we trusted, who allowed themselves to be turned into twisted, soulless monsters. The things they did were not justice, they were evil. I don’t trust the templars any more than you do, but I understand why they’re afraid. Do we know this mage who was made tranquil?”

“No. He said the man’s name is Maddox.”

“Then how do you know he passed his harrowing? You know how the circle likes to gossip. Perhaps he failed his test and some asshole templar was spreading lies to scare the apprentices. Or perhaps he really was a blood mage and they made him tranquil rather than execute him, letters notwithstanding.”

“Bren, we have to do something. Karl isn’t a gossip. He wouldn’t say this if he wasn’t certain of it. He isn’t safe there if they’re breaking chantry law.”

“All right. What’s your plan?” She folded her hands as his brow furrowed.

“Well...to help him?”

“No, that’s your objective. _How_ do you intend to help him?”

Anders sighed wearily and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. You’re the commander. What would you do?”

Brenna should tell him to leave the matter be, but she knew that would only drive him to do something foolish. She picked up her quill and fidgeted with it as she pondered their options. Worry for Anders’ safety warred with empathy for his fears—she would have been distraught if Zevran or Leliana were in similar danger. _Or Alistair_ …

“Our options are limited,” she began. “I could ask First Enchanter Irving to request to have Karl returned to the Fereldan circle. They are in desperate need of mages with teaching experience.”

“No. We don’t know what it’s like there now. It might be even worse than before, for all we know. I want Karl to be free.”

“That’s not possible as long as they have his phylactery.”

Anders understood that more than most, because his phylactery allowed the templars to find him after each of his escapes. She sighed and shredded the ragged remains of the quill’s feather. Ser Pounce-a-lot was a menace to writing implements. “I could try conscripting him but that might not be a kindness. We have no way of knowing if he’ll survive the Joining.”

“This isn’t freedom.” Anders almost growled the words and Brenna flinched.

“I know,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help you, but you would have been executed if the templars took you. Surely this is a better fate than death.” 

She managed a weak smile, and Anders rose, set his letter on the edge of her desk and approached her. He pulled her into his arms and she leaned into his embrace. 

“I’m grateful,” he murmured against her hair. “Never doubt that. I’m just...I’m worried about him. You didn’t want to lose me. I don’t want to lose him.”

She nodded and swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. “I understand. Wait here a moment.”

Brenna stepped back, crossed to the closed door and cast a privacy spell over it.

“What was that?” Anders asked.

“Something I learned from Morrigan.” She passed the desk and seated herself on the divan in front of the fireplace, and then she patted the spot beside her in invitation. “She knows a wealth of concealment spells that kept her hidden in the wilds. This one muffles sound so we won’t be overheard.”

Anders frowned as he joined her. “That seems ominous. What are you planning?”

“Something Weisshaupt would not approve of.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, sensing a headache on the horizon. Exhaustion settled over her like a set of plate armor, weighing her down until her limbs felt leaden. Part of her had been prepared for something like this—Anders was a runner, always fleeing one problem or sprinting toward a new one. He would never be happy as a warden. Not that Brenna was happy herself, but much of this life suited her in ways it would never suit him.

“There’s no warden outpost in Kirkwall,” she said, “so I have no official reason to send you there. We’ll have to be clever about this.”

“You’re good at clever plans.”

“Thank you, dear.” Brenna patted his hand and he took hers and held it, lacing their fingers together. “It will need to look as though you’ve run off so there’s no official connection to the wardens. Considering your history that should be a convincing story, and I’m sure you’ll have no problem playing the role of a disgruntled fugitive.” 

“Disgruntled? Are you accusing me of complaining?” Anders smiled dryly.

“Never.” She raised his hand and kissed his knuckles. “You’ll blend in with the refugees easy enough, and Lirene can help you get settled. She might even have contacts within the circle who can help you reach Karl.”

“Will your templar help?”

She laughed. “Absolutely not. Cullen is much too loyal to the order. But you should ask for him if the templars catch you. He’ll remember you from Kinloch, and he’ll believe that you are—or were—one of my recruits. We have a few maps of the deep roads near Kirkwall I can give you. If you get caught you can show the maps to the templars and claim that you’re scouting. If I’m asked, I’ll say you stole them and that I expect both you and the maps returned immediately.”

“Can I still claim to be a warden if I’m supposed to have run off?”

“Yes. Even deserters are still wardens. You can’t outrun the Calling.” It was a grim truth that was as certain at the sunrise—she had always thought she was destined to die in the circle, but now it would be the deep roads.

“All right. If I’m a deserter, I assume I won’t be bringing Karl here.”

“No. Go straight to Denerim. Karl can ask Alistair and Anora for sanctuary. The circle and the templars will complain, but they shouldn’t put up too much fuss for one apostate if the crown is involved.”

“Any idea how I can get Karl out of the Gallows?”

“None. You’ll have to figure that out on your own.”

“Lovely.” Anders sighed. “Thank you, Bren.”

“You can thank me when you and Karl are safe in Denerim. I’ll look after Ser Pounce-a-lot in the meantime.”

“You don’t think he wants to go to Kirkwall?”

She smirked. “I’m sure he’d happily go wherever you are, but he’ll be safer here. Lirene mentioned that the residents of Darktown eat cats when food is scarce.”

Anders’ eyes widened. “Maker’s breath! Right. He stays here, then.”

“Don’t you dare die on me.” She squeezed his hand and tried not to calculate the likelihood of never seeing him again. The Gallows had been a slave prison, and freeing Karl would be no simple task. Anders was decent in battle—the Vigil’s surviving soldiers viewed him as a hero who was instrumental in repelling the darkspawn siege. But darkspawn weren’t templars, and a single knight could silence that magic that Anders needed to defend himself.

“I’ll do my best.”

***

“Aim for the joints,” Zevran reminded. “Daggers are meant to pierce weak spots, not hack and slash like your sword.”

“I’m trying.” Brenna darted forward, but Zevran danced out of the way and easily avoided her attack. “You’re too bloody fast.”

“Or perhaps you are too slow.” He feinted at her left side and she moved to block—awkwardly, because the reflex ingrained in her called for the weight of her shield. He swept her feet out from beneath her the moment she was unbalanced, and Brenna hit the sparring mat hard.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers! You are too fast. It’s a fact.” She scowled as he offered her a hand and helped her rise.

“You will be as well, once we break you of your dependence on your shield and spellweaver sword.”

Brenna smiled wistfully. “I do love that sword. Finding it was my favorite part of exploring the temple of sacred ashes. Aside from killing the dragon cultists. And the dragon.”

Zevran chuckled. “Leliana would be shocked to hear that you were unimpressed by the urn of sacred ashes.”

“I was far more impressed by the temple in the Brecilian forest.” Or rather, she had been impressed by the knowledge imparted to her by the soul gem that had taught her the ways of an arcane warrior. Brenna never wanted to wield a staff again, but after the final battle against the Mother she had reluctantly accepted that she simply was not built to continue fighting with a sword and shield. As such, Zevran was teaching her his fighting style before he left for Antiva.

Once he and Anders were gone, she would be alone.

Brenna returned to her position and raised her weapons. It had taken a great deal of research and coin to duplicate the focusing ability of the spellweaver, and she considered it worth every copper. She was eager to try the new weapons, but for now she was restricted to blunted blades suitable for sparring.

“Again.” Zevran held the hilts of his daggers loosely, almost casually, as though bored. Brenna grimaced and zapped him with a small spark of magic, and he tsked his disapproval. “Now, now. That is cheating.”

“Grey wardens do whatever is necessary to win.” She circled him and searched for an opening. She attacked with a quick series of blows that drove him back, and the room was filled with the sound of metal striking metal as he parried each one. When they reached the wall of the training room he grinned, and Brenna gasped as Zevran disarmed her and whirled her around so that her back hit the stone wall.

The blunt blade of his sparring dagger pressed against her throat. “You are distracted. Normally I would assume that my high cheekbones and pouty lips are the source of your distraction, but I suspect something else is on your mind.”

“I’m also quite enamored of your arms. I feel that arms are underappreciated.”

Zevran grinned. “You are always welcome to appreciate anything of mine.”

“I suspected that, which is why I locked the door.” She smiled slyly and pulled him into a slow, lingering kiss. He tsked again once he drew away, and his expression sobered.

“You are avoiding the subject. You are worried about Anders.”

Brenna sighed. “Yes.”

“You could ask him to stay,” Zevran said.

“No. I can’t ask him to abandon Karl. He’s special to Anders.”

“You could ask me to stay.”

Brenna shook her head. “You would hate it here.”

“How can you be certain of that?”

“Because I hate it here.” She blurted the words without thinking, and then she sighed. “I didn’t choose this life—any of it. My choices have been made for me since I was sent to the circle at eight years old. None of this belongs to me.” She waved a hand at their surroundings. “Everything here belongs to the wardens, and so do I, as surely if they had bought me in a Tevinter slave market. I don’t want you to share my cage.”

“Then run away with me.” He took her hand, raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss against the inside of her wrist. “You will be my queen of Crows, and all of Antiva will tremble before us.”

“I’d like that." She smiled softly. "But if I leave the wardens I’ll be an apostate. A famous, dangerous apostate, and I’m not sure if the chantry truly destroyed my phylactery as they claimed. If the templars still have it, there is nowhere in Thedas that I would be safe.”

“You will always be safe with me, _querida_. You are the one thing in Thedas I love more than my homeland. I would stay with you, but I think that you would always question if I resented that choice. It would gnaw at you, because your clever mind sees everything as a puzzle to be solved.” He tapped her forehead for emphasis. “Perhaps one day that will change, but for now, when we are finished with your training I will return to Antiva and think of you every day. And should you ever need to leave here, know that my home will always be your home.”

“Write to me,” she demanded. “Tell me everything about it.”

“Of course, my dear warden. Now, I believe you were going to demonstrate your appreciation for me.”

Brenna grinned. “Gladly.”

***

_To Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

_The Gallows, Kirkwall_

_I am sorry to hear of the crimes committed by the blood mages. It grieves me that the grey wardens allow the use of blood magic to fight the darkspawn. They claim that the spawn must be defeated using any means necessary, but I disagree. Blood magic is evil, and using it makes mages as monstrous as any darkspawn. I have told Weisshaupt that I will not tolerate the presence of any blood mages in Ferelden while I am in command here. Thus far they have not pressed the issue._

_It will be a long road to Ferelden’s recovery from the Blight. I find myself fighting bureaucracy now that the darkspawn threat is no longer imminent, and there are times when it seems that I will never win this new war. Fortunately most of my banns are willing to forgive my missteps as their arlessa, and with time I hope to prove myself worthy of their faith in me._

_Since you are unable to transfer to Amaranthine to be my partner in chess, I have followed your lead and am now teaching the game to the students in the Vigil’s new school. We have a small number of students, namely the children of those who live in the keep or nearby, but I hope we will gain more as the arling rebuilds._

_I suppose my challenge to you is to stay the course, and have faith that there will be better times ahead._

_Sincerely,_

_Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_


	10. Blood Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden-Commander meets a new recruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time jump! We're jumping ahead to DAII, Post Act 1, Pre-Act 2. I'll be messing with the timeline a bit, because "nothing happens for 3 years and then PLOT!" works for a game, but not a story. 😉

_“You may take one thing with you, child.”_

_Brenna stared up at the stern woman in the strange uniform. She didn’t understand what was happening, but she knew it was bad, because her mother had sobbed and fussed until Nira, Brenna’s nurse, had taken Mother away. She could still hear the sound of weeping through the stone walls._

_“May I take Father?” Brenna asked._

_“No, child.” The woman shook her head. “An item. Like a doll. The Circle will provide you with necessities like clothing and bedding.”_

_Brenna wrinkled her nose. A doll? What use would that be? She wasn’t a baby. Brenna turned to Father, who looked ill as though he had swallowed something rotten. Her bottom lip quivered for a moment before she straightened and brushed the skirt of her dress. Father wasn’t crying, so she wouldn’t, either._

_“Am I in trouble because of the fire?” she asked him._

_Father managed a tight nod. “Yes, sweeting, I’m afraid so.”_

_“But it was an accident,” she protested. “I didn’t mean to do it. I promise I’ll never do it again.”_

_In truth, she wasn’t certain how she had managed it at all. Brenna had been defending a feral cat from a group of neighborhood bullies who thought it was great fun to throw rocks at the poor creature. One moment she had been shouting at the boys and the next their boots caught fire. It made more sense to Brenna that Divine Andraste had punished the boys for their cruelty, but no one agreed with her. Everyone said it was magic, and Brenna was to blame._

_“One item,” the lady intoned, “and be quick about it.”_

_Brenna shot her a sour glance and left the hall, and Father followed a few steps behind. There was only one item in all of Thedas that she imagined would be useful to her, and she stopped in front of the chessboard and looked up._

_“May I take it?” she asked Father._

_He nodded and knelt, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Do you remember what I taught you?”_

_“Once you understand the field and the players, the right strategy can solve any problem,” she recited. “All you have to do is find it.”_

_“My brave, clever girl.” Father hugged her tightly and pressed a kiss against her hair. “Never give up until you find it. And no matter what the Circle tells you, know that your family will always love you.”_

***

“He also sent you a new recruit.”

Brenna’s mind latched on to that last bit—everything before that had left a vague impression of _Stroud_ , _report_ , and _Deep Roads_ that barely pierced her frustration. Someone had skimmed funds from the arling’s reconstruction account, and when she discovered who it was she was going to put their head on a pike on the Vigil’s outer wall.

“I’m sorry, Nathaniel. What was that?” she asked.

The corners of his mouth twitched. “I knew you weren’t listening to me.”

“Well if you’d prefer switching tasks I’ll deliver reports and you can find the bastard who stole from us.”

He tilted his head and peered at the paperwork in question. “I’m willing to take a crack at it.”

“Have at it.” She vacated her chair and stepped aside. “What were you saying before that?”

Nathaniel handed her a letter bearing a griffon seal. “Stroud’s latest report about his adventures in the Free Marches. It came with a new recruit. She’s already been through the Joining, and she’s a mage. I thought you might want to meet her.”

“A mage?” She took the letter and set it aside to read later. A few of the Orlesian wardens who came and went were mages, but Brenna found their company irritating like an itchy wool robe. In fact she found most Orlesians irritating except for Leliana, though she was slowly developing a grudging tolerance for Stroud. He was growing on her, like mold. Stiff, mustachioed mold.

Nathaniel nodded as he took her chair. “She’s just outside.”

“Fine. Don’t get comfortable,” she warned, and he chuckled.

“Trust me, Commander. I have no desire to unseat you.”

Brenna shrugged on her greatcoat and glanced at Ser Cullen Barksalot, who was snoring atop his pillow in front of the hearth. Deciding to let sleeping mabari lie, she smiled and shook her head as she left.

The recruit was easy to spot—the one pale, bedraggled figure in the polished main hall of Vigil’s Keep. She leaned against a stone column and her eyelids drooped as though she would faint at any moment. Poor thing looked as though she had been seasick during the entire voyage to Amaranthine. Her dark hair hung limply around her face and brushed her shoulders, and the only spark of color about her was the faded red scarf draped around her neck like a wilted flower chain.

“Are you unwell?” Brenna asked.

Her eyes snapped open and she straightened. “Sorry. It’s just...is it always like this?”

Judging by the watery waver in her voice she probably hadn’t been an eager recruit. Perhaps she had been running from the circle and happened upon Stroud.

Brenna gave her what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “No. The first few weeks after the Joining are the worst, but then you adjust. You’ve probably had a rougher time of it being at sea. Do you think you can handle some food?”

“Yes, I’m famished.”

Brenna laughed. “You’ll adjust to that, too. I was so hungry after my Joining I felt like I was moments away from stopping to graze on the grass along the road like a druffalo. Come on. I’ll give you a shortened tour on the way to the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bethany Hawke.”

Brenna quirked an eyebrow—her name was Fereldan, as her accent. Was she one of the refugees who fled to Kirkwall to escape the Blight? “Where are you from?”

“Lothering, originally.” Bethany smiled weakly, and Brenna winced.

“I’m so sorry. I wish we could have done something to help the village, but it was only the pair of us then.”

Bethany nodded, and then her eyes widened. “You’re her!” Brenna inhaled in preparation to recite her standard Hero of Ferelden speech, but then Bethany blurted, “You’re my cousin.”

“I—what?”

“My mother was an Amell before she married my father. Your mother, Revka, was her cousin.”

The world seemed to freeze around her as though she’d been hit by a stunning spell. _Revka_ —it resonated in her chest like the plucked string on a harp. Her mother’s name was Revka. How could she have forgotten that? Her few remaining memories of life before the Circle were blurry, as though shrouded by smoke, and this was like a momentary flash of light in the darkness. _Revka Amell._

Knight-Commander Greagoir had been adamant that she had no family left. No one to rescue her. No one to advocate on her behalf. It made her an even more appealing target for abuse from the templars at Kinloch Hold. Was it possible that she still had family after all?

“Are you all right?” Bethany asked.

“I need to sit down. You need to sit down.” Brenna took a deep breath and attempted to banish the numbness that made her feel as though her body had been turned to stone. “Let’s skip the tour for now.”

Her knees were wobbly for the first few steps before her world eased into focus. _A cousin?_ More than one? She might have multiple cousins. Maker...what did it mean if she wasn’t alone? Did it mean anything at all?

Dinner preparations were in full swing when they entered the keep’s kitchen. Magda, the head cook, paused to frown at Brenna.

“What have you done now?” Magda asked her.

“Nothing. Yet. This is my cousin Bethany. She’s just arrived and she’s hungry.”

“Well she can sit at the table then.” Magda nodded to the table where the kitchen staff took their meals. “You can work if you’re going to stay.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Brenna shed her coat and hung it on a peg near the door and donned an apron.

The kitchen was her favorite place to hide from Mistress Woolsey. The staff had been terrified of her at first—she didn’t blame them, considering that Arl Howe was a monster who probably tortured his servants for spilling wine or under-seasoning the soup. Magda accepted her once she realized that, like any circle mage, Brenna followed orders without question and had a keen attention to detail.

Magda pointed to a basket of potatoes. “Wash. Peel. Quarter. Boil.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Brenna quirked an eyebrow at Bethany. “Do you cook?”

“A bit. Marian is better at it.” Bethany smiled as Magda placed a bowl of stew and a boule of bread in front of her. “Thank you.”

“Marian?” Brenna asked.

“My older sister. Oh, we met your templar.”

Brenna blinked, distracted by the idea of another cousin and then confused by the mention of her templar. “Knight-Captain Cullen?”

“Yes. He didn’t seem bad, for a templar.” She tried a spoonful of stew and smiled. “This is amazing, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Magda said. She caught Brenna’s gaze and nodded her approval—apparently Bethany passed muster.

“How did you…?” Brenna hauled the basket over to the water pump. “He’s not my templar. He’s a templar. How did you meet him?”

“Anders recognized him. Marian had gotten us involved in an investigation—”

“Andraste’s smoking tits! How do you know Anders?” Brenna asked.

“Language, Commander,” Magda said. “Let the poor girl eat before you interrogate her.” 

Brenna sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bethany ate in silence while Brenna prepared the potatoes as ordered. _Anders._ Maker’s breath. She hadn’t heard a single word from him since he left months ago. At least now she knew he was still alive, or had been whenever they encountered Cullen.

When Brenna finished her task she helped herself to her own bowl of stew and sat across from her cousin as she finished a healthy slice of Magda’s famous nut bread.

“Start at the beginning,” Brenna said.

Bethany nodded and launched into her family history, starting with how her mother fell in love with a Fereldan enchanter, and they ran away to start a new life together. Brenna marveled at the idea of being an apostate all of one’s life, and learning magic from a parent instead of the circle. She expressed her condolences for the death of Bethany’s twin brother Carver, and then she choked on a mouthful of stew when Bethany mentioned Flemeth.

Of all the people fleeing the Blight, Flemeth chose to save Brenna’s cousins? That did not bode well—Flemeth did nothing by accident.

Magda shooed them from the kitchen when Brenna finished eating, and they absconded with a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea and moved their discussion to the library. 

Bethany stared at the library in awe. “This is amazing. All of this is yours?”

“Ours,” she corrected. “Amaranthine belongs to the wardens. Do you play chess?”

“No.”

“Pity. I can teach you if you’d like.” Brenna set the tea tray on a table in a small reading area. Ser Pounce-a-lot leapt onto the table and sniffed the plate of biscuits. “Oh no you don’t. These aren’t for you.” Brenna lifted the ginger tabby and settled him in her lap.

“Who’s your friend?” Bethany asked.

“This is Ser Pounce-a-lot. He’s the second most spoiled creature in Vigil’s Keep, with my mabari being the first. Ser Cullen Barksalot is currently asleep in my office.”

Bethany’s brow rose. “That’s Ser Pounce-a-lot? Anders said the wardens made him get rid of his cat.”

“Why would I do that? I gave him Pounce when he was a kitten—a tiny kitten, not this greedy, enormous beast.” She scratched the cat beneath his chin and he purred his approval.

Bethany continued her tale, and she paused when she reached the portion where she and Marian first met Anders. Ser Pounce-a-lot perked up at hearing Anders’ name, but the cat hopped down and sauntered away when Anders didn’t appear.

“Did you know Karl?” Bethany asked.

Brenna began to answer but froze when she realized the question referred to Karl in the past tense. “Yes. What happened?”

“Anders didn’t tell you?”

“Anders is a deserter. I haven’t heard from him since he left.”

“Oh… Well, in exchange for the map of the Deep Roads, he asked for our aid in rescuing Karl. But it was a trap. Karl had been made tranquil, and the templars used him as bait to capture Anders. We killed the templars, and Anders killed Karl to spare him from living as a tranquil mage.”

Brenna held her head in her hands as tears stung her eyes. Tranquil. How could they do that to Karl? _Why_ would they? Karl Thekla was no blood mage.

“I should have done more,” she murmured past the lump in her throat. “I didn’t believe that they were using the rite of tranquility as punishment. It’s against chantry law!”

“I’m sorry.” Bethany squeezed her shoulder. “You were in the same circle as Anders and Karl?”

“Yes. I thought being transferred to the Kirkwall circle saved Karl’s life. I never thought something like this could happen to him.”

“Anders told us stories about the Fereldan circle. They were horrible.”

“ _Horrible_ hardly scratches the surface of what we endured. You are very fortunate to have avoided it.” Brenna dried her eyes and refilled her tea. “There aren’t many perks to being a grey warden, but you’ll never have to worry about the templars again.”

Bethany continued, sharing a series of adventures that culminated in her expedition to the deep roads, where she contracted the Blight. Anders saved her life by taking her to Stroud, though it begged the question of how Anders knew where Stroud was. She assumed that detail was covered in Stroud’s report.

“I like to think that things happen for a reason,” Brenna said. “It’s the only way I can account for the more outrageous events I’ve lived through, and I find comfort in it. For example, if your sister hadn’t brought you along on your Deep Roads expedition, you wouldn’t have taken ill and become a grey warden, and I never would have known that I had any family. It’s been...difficult.” She cleared her throat and sipped her tea. “Knight-Commander Greagoir made it quite clear that I had no one left. No one to help me.”

“He may not have known about your extended family.”

“Perhaps… I have a friend in the chantry. She might be able to learn what records the circle kept about me.” Brenna set her cup aside and straightened her shoulders as she studied Bethany. “We have an armorer here, but we’ll need to go into the city to find you civilian clothes. Do you like children?”

“Yes, why?”

“We have a school here. They can always use more help, if you’re interested. Oh! Mistress Woolsey’s been harassing me to throw a big fancy party to impress the banns. Long-lost family is a good reason, right?” Brenna asked. “And you’re a real Fereldan! They’ll _love_ that. And I need to write Alistair. He’ll want to meet you.”

“Ali—wait, King Alistair?” Bethany’s eyes widened as she gaped at Brenna.

“Well when he’s here he wants to be seen as a warden. I don’t argue. It means I can give him orders.” Brenna grinned, and her cousin giggled.

“What sort of fancy party?” Bethany asked.

“Not fancy like Orlesian-fancy.” Brenna wrinkled her nose. “Those are terrible. Fereldan celebrations are much better.”

“Can I wear a ball gown?”

Brenna smiled. “Cousin, you can have as many ball gowns as you like.”

***

_Dear Mother,_

_So it’s official: I’m a grey warden. The warden who saved me, Stroud, sent me to Amaranthine to train with the wardens at Vigil’s Keep. I was welcomed by Warden-Commander Brenna Amell, who was thrilled to learn that she has cousins. Apparently the circle told her that she had no family left. I’ve enclosed a letter from her, as she has many questions for you about our family. She says we may be able to visit Kirkwall next year._

_It’s been difficult. I have awful nightmares, and when I close my eyes I hear whispering. Brenna says this is normal and that I will adjust over time, but, as she puts it, I’ll never have to worry about being found by the templars again._

_I wish I hadn’t taken ill in the Deep Roads, but if this is to be my life now, it’s not entirely terrible. In fact, Brenna is planning a ball to celebrate my arrival. A ball! Can you imagine? I wish you could see the gown the dressmaker has planned for me._

_Give my love to Marian, and to Uncle Gamlen, if you’re feeling generous._

_Love,_

_Bethany_

***

_From the report of Warden Jean-Marc Stroud to Warden-Commander Brenna Amell, Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine_

_Based on the local intelligence we received, I was able to locate the deserter Anders in Darktown. Per your instruction, I did not insist on his return to the order, only the return of the stolen maps. He claimed to need time to make a copy as he had promised the maps to a group of adventurers planning an expedition into the Deep Roads. Normally I would not have allowed this, but we made a deal for an exchange of information. Anders would provide me with a full report of the expedition’s findings, and I would share our plans so that we would not cross purposes._

_During our exploration, Anders located our group and asked that we take on one of his companions, a mage named Bethany Hawke, who had contracted the Blight. I would not have agreed, but he argued that she was a mage of some skill and would be a valuable asset should she survive the Joining. I have sent her to you in hope that you can teach her your unique combat style. Weisshaupt has expressed interest in acquiring more mages who fight as you do._

_I should also note that I discovered the fate of Justice, the fade spirit who previously inhabited the body of Warden Kristoff. Justice now inhabits the body of the deserter Anders. It appears that this possession has not transformed Anders into a true abomination, but my intelligence reports that he has shown signs of becoming increasingly unstable._

***

_L—_

_I have several matters that would benefit from your assistance. Care to be my honored guest for an Amaranthine ball?_

_—B_

***

_To Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

_The Gallows, Kirkwall_

_A new recruit from Kirkwall arrived at Vigil’s Keep, and I learned, much to my shock, that I have cousins. Knight-Commander Greagoir once told me that I had no living family left, but apparently that was not true. She knew my mother’s name—Revka—which I had forgotten. I still don’t remember what she looked like, but learning my mother’s name restored a piece of my past._

_I spent so many years thinking that I was alone in the world that it feels strange to know I have family, but when I look back now I realize that I had a family of sorts at the circle. Wynne was one of my mentors, and she was a steadfast companion who stood by my side throughout the Blight. She often reminded me that she and I must always be conscious of the fact that we were representing the Circle of Magi, and others would judge the circle by our actions._

_My cousin also brought news that I hope is not true. One of my mentors from the Fereldan circle, Enchanter Karl Thekla, was transferred to the Kirkwall circle before Uldred’s uprising. You might remember him as one of my chess partners, though he often joked that I had surpassed him in skill and should be teaching him instead. I had assumed that Karl was doing well at your circle, but if this information is correct he was made Tranquil and later killed. How is that possible? Karl not only passed his Harrowing but he also enabled other mages, including myself, to pass theirs. That’s a clear violation of chantry law._

_I understand the importance of standing vigilant against corruption, but is it not also important to recognize those mages who strive to do their best with the gifts the Maker has given them?_

_For now, I have requested that the chantry in Amaranthine hold a memorial service for Karl, and I will pray that your response does not confirm that a good man met a violent end._

_Sincerely,_

_Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bethany's letter is an updated version of the one she sends Hawke in the game. I figure she's a little happier in Vigil's Keep--still tainted by the darkspawn, but she gets to be spoiled a bit.


	11. Brought to Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knight-Captain Cullen discovers some ugly truths about the templars of Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline divergence from DAII, still post Act 1, pre Act 2.

_At first Cullen wasn’t concerned when Apprentice Brenna began to miss the agreed upon times for their clandestine chess games. The apprentices’ schedules were regimented, but things came up—a task for a senior enchanter, a subject that needed additional study, that sort of thing. But when the absences stretched into two weeks with no glimpse of her, Cullen truly worried. Was she ill? Had she been transferred to another circle? It seemed unlikely, as First Enchanter Irving was particularly fond of Brenna as one of his most accomplished apprentices._

_When she finally reappeared it was clear that something was wrong. Her face was pale and drawn, and her steps were cautious, as though each movement pained her. She kept her gaze downcast as she silently moved through the apprentice library, retrieving a book or two before disappearing back to her dormitory._

_It was nearly a month before Cullen found Apprentice Brenna waiting, perched on the edge of her chair with the chessboard set on the table before her. Startled, he nearly stumbled at the sight of her as he took his assigned position in the library._

_“Have you been ill?”_

_She pondered that for a moment before nodding slowly. “In a manner of speaking. Injured may be more accurate.”_

_“What happened?” Some sort of spell gone wrong? Cullen doubted it—any magical accident severe enough to have injured her that badly would have been the talk of the circle._

_“I was...outmaneuvered.” Brenna grimaced, and Cullen frowned in confusion._

_“Is there something I can do?”_

_“No.” She glanced up to meet his gaze, and he thought he saw the shadow of a bruise beneath her left eye. “I appreciate the offer, but you can’t help me. Shall we begin?”_

***

Cullen pondered his options as he frowned at Brenna’s most recent letter. He could tell her the truth—he had no idea what had happened to Karl Thekla. He hadn’t known Karl had been made Tranquil, or that he had died. Cullen had rarely crossed paths with the mage as his duties kept him elsewhere in the Gallows—most of his time was spent training recruits and handling the bureaucratic details that entailed.

“Something the matter, Knight-Captain?” Thrask asked. Ser Thrask had replaced Raleigh as Cullen’s roommate, and he was a quieter and certainly more sober roommate than Raleigh had been.

“I’m not certain,” Cullen murmured in reply.

At first he hadn’t regretted turning Raleigh into the knight commander—Raleigh had defied a direct order and Cullen was honor-bound to report him. He had assumed that Raleigh would be censured—a response that would have been appropriate for this sort of indiscretion—but instead Knight-Commander Meredith had chosen to make examples of both Raleigh and the mage he had been aiding, Maddox. Raleigh had been expelled from the order and Maddox was made Tranquil.

Cullen had also assumed that Maddox’s fate had been proportionate to his crime—perhaps it had been discovered that the love letters concealed some sort of code that allowed Maddox to communicate with blood mages in the city. A special circumstance that merited breaking chantry law in this one particular instance. What if he’d been wrong? Had the knight commander used the Rite of Tranquility as punishment on other mages?

He set the letter down and turned to Thrask, who was polishing the greaves of his armor. The room stank of the pungent polish, but the eye-watering smell was so familiar to the knights’ barracks that Cullen almost found comfort in it.

“Do you still monitor the enchanters as part of your duties?” Cullen asked.

Thrask shook his head. “Not recently. These past few weeks I’ve been assigned to the city patrols.”

“Did you know Enchanter Karl Thekla?”

“I did.” Thrask paused before nodding. “Why?”

“The warden commander asked after him. He was one of her mentors in the Fereldan circle. I saw him a few times in passing when I first transferred here, but that was all.”

Thrask continued his work without comment, head bowed. Cullen quirked an eyebrow—with the amount of focus he displayed, Thrask was likely to wear a hole through the metal plate. After Raleigh’s expulsion, word had circulated through the barracks that Cullen had turned the man in. When Thrask arrived as his new roommate, Cullen wondered if Thrask was being punished or if he had simply drawn the short straw.

“Did something happen to him?” Cullen prompted.

“He was killed while attempting escape.”

“A Tranquil mage attempted escape?”

“There were rumors…” Thrask trailed off and shrugged. “Idle gossip, nothing more.”

Cullen studied him. The other knights had shut him out, blaming him for Raleigh’s fate. He didn’t mind the ostracism—things had become increasingly tense within their ranks, and he had developed enough social connections outside of the order that he was hardly starving for company. He didn’t know if he could trust Thrask, but he hadn’t seen any reason to distrust him. This might be his opportunity to gain insight into the man’s character.

Cullen picked up the letter and held it out to Thrask. “A moment, if you would be so kind.”

Thrask set his work aside, wiped his hands on a clean rag, and took the letter. His brow furrowed, but his expression was otherwise inscrutable thanks to the man’s thick, red goatee. Though the color hinted at Chasind ancestry, Thrask’s accent was completely Marcher.

When Thrask finished reading he studied Cullen for a silent moment before returning the letter. “What will you tell her?”

“I could tell her the truth, that I don’t know what happened to him. But Brenna won’t accept that. She’s stubborn as a mabari when she’s in search of an answer.” Cullen smiled dryly, and for a moment he thought Thrask looked amused.

“I know that he was made Tranquil,” Thrask said, “but I don’t know the reason for it. I never saw any indications that he was a blood mage.”

Cullen grimaced. “Most of the mages at the Fereldan circle showed no signs until it was too late. Regardless, the Rite of Tranquility should not have been used on a mage who passed his Harrowing.”

“It would not be the first time that has happened here.”

“How many more are there?” Cullen asked.

It seemed as though there were far more Tranquil in the Gallows than Cullen remembered there being in Kinloch Hold, but he had assumed that it was due to the Gallows being a larger circle. Had he blinded himself to the truth that these mages had been made Tranquil against the dictates of chantry law? Knight-Commander Meredith claimed that all her decisions were made with Kirkwall’s best interests in mind—to protect the citizens, and even the circle itself, from the corruption of blood magic. Cullen understood that need more than most due to the disaster at Kinloch. Hard choices were necessary, but it was the Divine’s place to rewrite chantry policy, not the order’s.

Thrask shrugged and resumed polishing his armor. “You would need to review the circle’s records to determine that. Though that shouldn’t be too difficult a task for a knight captain.”

“True. Thank you.” Cullen stored Brenna’s letter with the rest of his correspondence.

“She seems quite remarkable.”

Cullen blinked, startled—he had expected Thrask to lapse back into his habitual silence.

“She is,” he agreed. “I haven’t met her like since.”

***

His rank granted him access to circle records that most templars could not view. But first, he needed to know which records to examine. Over the course of one week Cullen recorded the names of the Tranquil mages in the Gallows, a task which quickly became alarming as the list lengthened. Several were mages that he was certain had not been Tranquil when he first arrived at the Gallows. How had he not noticed them? The knight commander even kept a Tranquil mage as her assistant with the reasoning that the Tranquil were more focused on their work. Unfortunately they were also unable to speak up if mistreated, or defend themselves. Cullen remembered seeing several of Kinloch’s Tranquil being slaughtered by abominations during the initial outbreak of violence—they simply could not, or would not, fight back.

After collecting his list, Cullen began the tedious process of checking the mages’ records. It would have been a simple task had he been able to check them all at once, but he would have been noticed, and his interest questioned. He needed to be cautious—he didn’t want to join Raleigh in his expulsion. _Maker._ Phantom pains clawed through his body at the agonizing memory of lyrium withdrawal. Either Knight-Commander Meredith didn’t understand the extent of the suffering she had sentenced Raleigh to, or she did understand it and still hadn’t hesitated in her cruelty.

She would likely call it necessity—that she was doing what was necessary to fight the corruption of blood magic, not unlike Brenna’s mention that the grey wardens did whatever was necessary to defeat the Blight. But as she had also explained, those sorts of measures made monsters of the very people who were attempting to do the right thing. Meredith’s efforts to prevent another mage uprising like Uldred’s might be causing the very thing she guarded against, and Cullen wanted no part of that.

He checked one or two names each day when he entered the archive to file his reports, and one by one the records revealed a troubling pattern. As expected, some of the Tranquil were young and hadn’t been tested, but there was no documentation explaining why the Rite had been chosen instead of allowing them to attempt the Harrowing. When he reached the end of his list Cullen was sickened by the knowledge that many of the mages had passed their Harrowing, as Karl had.

Cullen had known all of the mages at Kinloch Hold, but he had recognized Karl because Brenna spent much time with Karl and Anders. He knew that Anders, now a grey warden, was in Kirkwall, and he had worked with Serah Hawke after her now famous journey to the Deep Roads. Could Anders know something about what happened to Karl? Normally Cullen wouldn’t even consider the possibility, but Hawke had an uncanny talent for being involved whenever there was trouble in Kirkwall. Anders might have reported Karl’s fate to Brenna.

It was worth investigating—if nothing else, Anders could pass Cullen’s findings to Brenna, and she would ensure that the information got into the right hands. He couldn’t send it to her himself, because he knew his correspondence was monitored—everyone’s was in the Gallows. The only thing that had kept his letters from Brenna from being opened on arrival was the order’s reluctance to break the warden commander’s seal. Cullen was certain that the letters were examined after he read them when he wasn’t in his quarters. Knight-Commander Meredith kept every templar on a short leash.

On his next rest day Cullen lingered at Lirene’s shop after completing her assignment. The day’s task had consisted of Cullen working as an apprentice of sorts to Hudson, a carpenter who had previously lived in the Hinterlands, building simple furniture for a family who had lost everything in a fire.

“I need your aid,” Cullen said. 

“Everyone needs my aid,” Lirene replied dryly. “You’re supposed to be alleviating that, not adding to it.”

“I know. My apologies. I wish to speak with the grey warden Anders. Could you deliver a message for me?”

“Why?” Lirene’s eyes narrowed. “I won’t see him dragged to the Gallows.”

“Templars have no jurisdiction over grey warden mages. He has nothing to fear from me, you have my word.” Though if the knight commander was breaking other rules of the order, there was no telling if she might break this one as well. Maker, Cullen did not want to explain to Brenna how one of her wardens ended up Tranquil, or dead.

“You’ve always been honest. Don’t disappoint me now.” Lirene folded her arms and eyed him warily. “What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him I wish to meet in a public space of his choosing, and he may bring his companions.”

“And what is this about?”

Cullen scratched the back of his neck as he weighed his options. It had to be a simple message in case the wrong people overheard. “Tell him it’s about a question from the warden commander.”

***

Only foolish or desperate knights drank at the Hanged Man, and as he stepped inside he had never been so grateful for his civilian clothing. Cullen had never had cause to enter the place before. The templars patronized a tavern closer to the Gallows, and on the rare occasion his Fereldan friends convinced him to join them after spending the day working for Mistress Lirene or Sister Constance they visited a Fereldan-owned establishment.

The Hanged Man was noisy, crowded, and it smelled strongly of smoke, sour ale and stale vomit. Why anyone would willingly spend their coin here was a mystery to Cullen, but perhaps that was part of its “charm.” It was a place for underhanded deals made by those with questionable motives. _Maker’s breath_. He hoped Brenna appreciated the lengths he was going to in order to answer her.

Lirene’s instructions had said that Anders would be waiting in the room at the top of the stairs. Cullen squared his shoulders and wove his way around the crowded tables and attempted to avoid the suspicious puddles staining the floor.

The door was propped open, and Cullen paused in the entrance as he peered into the room. The furnishings were much finer than expected, and the smell was quite improved. A long table stretched to the right, and the group seated at it eyed him with suspicion.

“Serah Hawke,” he greeted.

“Knight-Captain. Have a seat.” Hawke nodded to an empty chair across from her. Anders was seated beside her, and a dwarf was seated at the head of the table. Varric Tethras, if he remembered correctly—his fortunes had also improved thanks to the Deep Roads expedition. The patrons in Lirene’s shop had gossiped about the expedition for weeks, and Hawke’s adventure became more daring with each retelling.

“What do you want?” Anders asked before Cullen managed to sit. He eased into the chair and placed his hands on the table in full view.

“Brenna asked a question that I don’t know the answer to, and I suspect that you may know more.”

“This is Warden-Commander Brenna, right?” Varric asked.

“Right,” Anders said. “She corresponds with the knight captain, Maker knows why.”

Cullen shrugged. “Probably because you refused to play chess with her, and I took up the call.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Hawke quirked one dark eyebrow. From his few conversations with her, Cullen had learned that she was a woman with a sharp wit and a sly smile.

Anders snorted. “No. They actually played chess together in the Fereldan circle.”

“I’m definitely using that in my romance serial,” Varric said.

“No you’re not,” Hawke said. “Be nice. What was the question?”

“If I may?” Cullen pointed to his coat. Hawke nodded, and Cullen withdrew Brenna’s letter from an inner pocket and set it on the table between them.

“Lovely handwriting,” Hawke said. “The way Anders tells it I was expecting to see all the ‘i’s dotted with hearts.”

Cullen sighed but didn’t comment. Anders grimaced when he finished reading, and Hawke handed the letter to Varric.

“Bethany must have told her about Karl,” Anders said.

“Bethany? Your sister?” Cullen asked Hawke, who nodded.

“She’s a grey warden now. She caught the Blight during our Deep Roads expedition. Anders and the other wardens saved her, and now she’s training in Amaranthine.”

“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m glad she survived.”

Maker’s breath. Bethany and Marian Hawke were Brenna’s cousins. Brenna managed to get into no end of trouble on her own without the influence of the Hawke sisters. Still, Brenna had sounded overjoyed at the discovery. Cullen felt a twinge of guilt at the distance he had placed between himself and his own family.

“Are you?” Anders asked.

Cullen frowned. “Am I what?”

“Glad. It seems as though a templar—ow!” Anders glared at Hawke. “You kicked me.”

“I’ll muzzle you if you can’t be polite.” Hawke returned his glare and then smiled at Cullen. “My apologies. You really don’t know what happened to Karl?”

“No. Our paths didn’t cross in the circle here, and according to his records he was killed while attempting escape, which is impossible.”

“Why? I escaped the Fereldan circle seven times.” Anders watched him with an expression of barely controlled rage, as though he waited for Cullen to reveal that this was some sort of elaborate ruse.

“I remember.” Cullen frowned—Anders’ last escape might have saved his life and brought him to the wardens, but it had also ensured that he hadn’t been there when Brenna had needed her friends most. “But Tranquil mages don’t attempt escape.”

“Ow! I didn’t even say anything,” Anders complained to Hawke.

“It was a preemptive kick,” she replied. “I’ll explain before you accidentally set anything on fire again.”

Varric nodded. “You still owe me a new rug, Blondie.”

“Fine. You explain, I’ll get us another round.” Scowling, Anders rose and retreated before Hawke could assault him further.

“Good. Take your time.” Hawke waited until the mage was out of earshot and then took a deep breath. “We agree that Karl should not have been made Tranquil, right?”

“Correct,” Cullen said. “Doing so was a violation of chantry law.”

“And several other reasons, but that’ll work.” Hawke leaned forward and folded her hands atop the table, and though there wasn’t much family resemblance to speak of the gesture reminded him of Brenna about to launch into an explanation of her winning strategy. “Karl was made Tranquil to silence him because he was speaking out against the knight commander’s new rules.”

“Unfortunately that appears to be in line with what I found.”

“You read Karl’s file?” Hawke asked.

“I read several files.” He withdrew his list and handed it to her. “That is why I’m here.”

Her brow furrowed and she tilted the page so Varric could read it as well. “What is this?”

“A list of the mages in the Gallows who passed their Harrowing but were made Tranquil.”

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks,” Varric swore. “That’s—”

“About two dozen,” Hawke said.

“And that is an accounting of the mages I was able to spot who are currently in the Gallows. If they were killed, like Karl, or transferred to another circle, there may be more.”

“Maker’s breath…” Hawke sat back and rubbed her eyes. “Now I really need another drink.”

“How did Karl die?” Cullen asked.

“A group of templars used him as bait to draw out Blondie,” Varric said. “Karl was a casualty.” He and Hawke shared a heavy look, and Cullen shook his head in disbelief.

“But he’s a warden.”

Hawke’s brow rose. “If they’re already breaking chantry law, do you think they care about honoring the agreement with the grey wardens?”

Cullen’s gaze dropped to the list as a cold, anxious lump formed in his gut. _By any means necessary_. This was not the order he had pledged himself to. One could not fight corruption with more corruption.

“I need Anders to get this information to Brenna,” Cullen said. “She has the connections to see that it reaches the right people. I can’t send it. All correspondence leaving the Gallows is monitored.”

“We can do that, but without the original records I doubt it will get very far,” Hawke said. “All Meredith has to do is deny everything.”

“There is no evidence that the knight commander ordered the Rite to be enacted on these mages,” Cullen said. “Ser Alrik performed the Rite on almost every mage on the list.”

“Is there evidence that she tried to stop it?” Hawke asked.

“No.”

“Then she’s either complicit or grossly negligent,” she said. “Which do you think it is?”

Cullen sighed and rubbed his eyes. In truth, he thought it was a bit of both. Knight-Commander Meredith was doing what she thought was right, but she was also careful to ensure that any wrongdoing would fall on one of her subordinates. Ser Alrik may have used the Rite, but Meredith’s silence made her an accomplice.

“Leave him be, Hawke,” Varric said. “He’s done a good job. We’ll take it from here.”

Hawke nodded. “I’ll make sure my cousin gets this.”

“Thank you.”

***

_To Warden-Commander Brenna Amell, Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine. Enclosed in a letter to Warden Bethany Hawke from Serah Marian Hawke, delivered by a courier of House Tethras._

_Brenna,_

_Your damned templar asked after me thanks to you. I’m not sure how you did it, but you inspired him to investigate the mages being made Tranquil in the Gallows and the bastard responsible for it—Ser Alrik. He performed the rite on Karl. Nasty piece of work. I wish we could’ve killed him twice._

_After Hawke and I took care of Alrik we found the enclosed letter on his corpse. Apparently he wished to use the Rite of Tranquility on every circle mage who had reached their majority. Though the Divine turned him down, I doubt she knows of the extent of his crimes. I copied the list of names below. (I burned your templar’s original list, you’re welcome.) Maybe your nightingale can get this information into the right hands._

_Anders_

_***_

_To Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

_The Gallows, Kirkwall_

_Enclosed please find the first, and possibly only, appropriate needlepoint token I’ve ever crafted. Mistress Woolsey almost wept with joy when I finally created one without expletives or rude images._

_Thank you._

_Sincerely,_

_Brenna_

[Enclosed: One white linen handkerchief. Embroidered along the edges is an intricate knotwork border containing heraldic imagery of mabari, white knight chess pieces, griffons, and assorted chantry symbols. Included in one corner is the phrase, “Light shall shine upon all of creation, if we are only strong enough to carry it.”]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure everyone is shocked that Hawke and Varric are slightly less than 100% honest with Cullen. 😉
> 
> There's a bit of dialogue from DAII here, and a quote from the Chant of Light.


	12. The Griffon and the Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana arrives at Vigil's Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of cuteness and chantry politics.

Everything ached, which confirmed Brenna’s fear that she had been spending too much time behind a desk and not enough in the lists. But the recruits had performed well during the day’s combat training—both the wardens and the Silver Order. _Silver Order_. She shook her head and yawned. It wasn’t a terribly creative name, but the locals started calling the Vigil’s soldiers the Silver Order after the darkspawn siege due to their silverite armor, and the name stuck. It could have been worse. They could have used dawnstone and been the pink platoon, or the blush brigade.

Regardless of their new name, Brenna was determined to build a military force strong enough to defend Amaranthine from any enemy. Ferelden had been weakened by the Blight, and she hadn’t saved the kingdom from darkspawn just to watch it fall to greedy, unscrupulous neighbors. Some days she wondered if the Orlesian wardens would defend the arling if Orlais attempted to reclaim the Ferelden, but she quickly pushed those thoughts aside. It wouldn’t do to become as paranoid as Loghain had been, Maker spit on the traitor’s ashes.

As they neared her quarters Ser Cullen Barksalot perked up and bounded ahead of Brenna. He scratched the door with an eager whine, and Brenna scolded him.

“Stop that! Mistress Woolsey complains enough about claw marks on the doors as it is.”

The mabari bolted through the door the moment she opened it and began barking excitedly.

“Whatever are you—Leliana!” Brenna gaped at the sight of the war dog on his back, offering his belly for rubs from her nightingale. “You’re early. How did you…? Oh, Maker’s breath. We just restructured the keep’s patrols. Did you at least have some difficulty getting in?”

“None at all.” Leliana grinned as she obliged Ser Cullen, and he wriggled in canine bliss. “I could be persuaded to help you tighten your security before their majesties arrive.”

“I do enjoy persuading you.” Brenna stepped around her mabari and drew Leliana into her arms. “Hello, beautiful. I missed you.”

“I missed you.”

Brenna kissed her, soft and slow, savoring the bittersweet moment—she had been so lonely since Zevran left. She blinked away the urge to cry, for she refused to waste any of her time with her nightingale dwelling on things she couldn’t change. She could be a weeping mess after Leliana left.

“How long are you staying?” Brenna asked.

“Until after the ball. Why don’t you have a gown?” Leliana pointed at the open wardrobe, which she had been inspecting before Ser Cullen demanded her attention.

“No gowns.” Brenna kissed her again and drew away to liberate the attire she’d had tailored for the event for Leliana’s inspection. “Gowns are too much like robes, and I’m never wearing those again. Hence, this. It has pockets.”

Leliana examined the tunic with a furrowed brow. “It’s very...Fereldan.”

“That’s the idea.” The garment was Fereldan in style, but the colors and heraldry were pure grey warden. It was stiff and formal, which meant Mistress Woolsey had approved of it. Barely.

“Are the shoes pretty at least?”

“Boots, and no. Handsome, perhaps. I quite like them.” Brenna shrugged. “I let Bethany run wild with pretty trimmings for her gown. I think she bought every ribbon in the city.”

“Your cousin, Bethany Hawke?” Leliana quirked an eyebrow, and Brenna sighed.

“Stop reading my letters!” She replaced the clothing and shut the wardrobe’s doors before Leliana could further critique her fashion choices. Bethany had already proclaimed that Brenna’s apparel looked as though she was still fighting a war. There was truth in that—her life had been a series of battles since she left the circle, though as of late she dueled bureaucrats and fought with a quill and sharp words.

“I can’t help it, they’re fascinating.” Leliana took both of her hands and squeezed them. “I’m happy for you. I remember Bethany from Lothering. She was a sweet girl.”

“She says you always told the best stories, and I agree.” Brenna glanced around the room. “Did you bring anything with you? Luggage? Trunks filled with shoes?”

Leliana giggled. “Perhaps. My things are arriving tomorrow, as scheduled. I couldn’t wait to see you so I traveled ahead.”

“Are you hungry? Tired? Thirsty? We had to increase our stores of Orlesian wine to keep the visiting wardens happy.”

“Perhaps later.” She pulled Brenna toward the bed with a sultry smile, and Brenna’s heart raced.

“Absolutely. Sorry, Ser Cullen, you’re going to have to bunk with Bethany tonight.”

***

After sleeping indecently late and indulging in a breakfast tray delivered to her quarters—a luxury Brenna rarely allowed herself, as she either took her meals in the mess hall, kitchen, or her office—it was nearly noon before Brenna and Leliana entered the great hall.

“It’s very—”

“Fereldan, I know,” Brenna finished. “The Orlesian wardens complain about that all the bloody time. I’m not sure what they’re expecting. It’s not like we keep the kennels in the formal dining hall.” Ser Cullen whined and tilted his head, and Brenna scowled at the mabari. “That was one time, and only because it was cold. The pups would have frozen to death.”

“I doubt the Orlesian wardens understand the value of such brave war dogs.” Leliana smiled and scratched behind his ears. “What they expect is more finery. In Orlais, every detail of the great hall of a noble’s estate is designed to communicate the family’s wealth, standing, and influence.”

Brenna snorted. “I’m fairly certain that this hall says, ‘I killed Arl Howe and took his stuff.’”

“Had his stuff granted to you by the king,” Leliana corrected. “Alistair and Anora are arriving in three days, yes?”

“Yes, and, once again, stop reading my mail.” Brenna kissed her lightly. “We need to find Seneschal Garavel so you can give him your suggestions on our security patrols. I’m not expecting trouble, but...”

“Trouble seems to follow you.”

“It’s been quiet since we defeated the Mother’s army. More or less.”

Leliana quirked an eyebrow, but they were interrupted before she could ask Brenna to elaborate.

“Sister Leliana?” 

They turned and spotted Bethany. Her brow was furrowed—she was likely attempting to reconcile the memory of Leliana as an affirmed sister of the chantry in Lothering and the woman currently standing before her. Brenna remembered their first meeting in the inn in Lothering, and how she had been confused by the chantry sister who had informed her that the Maker wanted her to help Brenna defeat the Blight. Leliana wore civilian attire, but she moved with the grace and confidence of a mountain lioness stalking its prey—both creatures were sleek, beautiful, and killed without hesitation or remorse.

“Leliana is my guest for the ball,” Brenna said. “She wants to see your gown, because she’s disappointed in my tunic.”

“It’s lovely to see you again, Bethany. I’m glad that someone in your family inherited some fashion sense.”

Bethany grinned. “She’s been spoiling me. I’ve never owned so many pretty things in my entire life.”

“It’s good for the local economy,” Brenna said. “We can visit the city tomorrow and do some shopping.”

“Oh! We can pick up my new slippers.” Bethany turned to Leliana. “There’s a cobbler there who makes the most amazing shoes.”

Brenna held up a hand. “Before we get distracted by shoes, I want Leliana to see our research. We’ve been recording our family’s history. It’s fascinating. Come see.” She tucked Leliana’s hand in the crook of her arm and escorted her to the library.

“That’s why I was looking for you.” Bethany fell in step with them. “I found a new branch in those books we acquired from Ostwick.”

“Another branch? At this rate we’ll discover that we’re related to half of the Free Marches.”

“Do you have any Orlesian cousins?” Leliana asked.

Brenna shook her head. “Not yet. We found a few interesting mortalitasi connections in Nevarra, though.”

Their research occupied an entire work table in the library, which was covered with books, papers, and an ever-growing family tree. Ser Pounce-a-lot lounged atop the largest collection of notes like a ginger tabby paperweight, and his tail twitched as though daring them to move him.

Bethany sighed. “I swear I just threw him out of the room. I don’t know how he gets back inside.”

“Well, his daddy was a mage and an escape artist.” Brenna picked the cat up and transferred him to a cushioned reading chair.

Leliana’s brow rose as she perused their work. “This is impressive. I’m a bit jealous. Perhaps I should learn more about my mother’s Fereldan roots.”

“With this color, I bet you’ve some Chasind ancestry.” Brenna tugged at a lock of Leliana’s red hair, and Bethany giggled.

“I can picture you as a Chasind warrior,” Bethany said. “Perhaps a chieftain.”

“Witch of the wilds...ow!” Brenna rubbed her side as though Leliana’s elbow had gravely wounded her. 

Leliana ignored her indignation as she traced her fingers over the Hawke family. She paused and her expression sobered. “Oh no, Carver died? I’m so sorry.”

Bethany nodded. “He died protecting us from darkspawn when we fled Lothering.”

“The Blight took many good people.” Leliana took Bethany’s hand and squeezed it.

“Not just the Blight,” Brenna murmured. She tapped her branch of the Amell family. “When I was at the circle, Knight-Commander Greagoir told me that my family was dead, and there was no one left. From what we’ve learned, that wasn’t true.”

“Oh? More cousins?” Leliana asked.

“No. Siblings. I have four siblings.”

Brenna hadn’t remembered them at all at first—it was as though each day lived in the circle had erased a day of her life before, until all that was left was the scattered flotsam of a wrecked past. Leandra’s letters restored her memory in bits and pieces, and now she could picture her mother’s smile, hear the rumble of her father’s laugh. Her siblings were still shadows—nameless, faceless ghosts that remained ever out of reach—but now she knew they existed.

“There is a record of my mother’s death,” Brenna continued. “She took ill about a year after I was taken to the circle, but my father might still be alive.”

“Maker’s breath.” Leliana’s eyes widened.

“Would the chantry have more information in my circle records? I’m curious if the knight commander lied in order to…” She trailed off, and Leliana pulled her close and embraced her. Leliana knew, and she understood—Brenna, Zevran, and Leliana found kinship during the Blight while sharing the abuses of their pasts in hushed whispers as they huddled together in their tent.

“I’ll see what I can find,” Leliana said.

“Thank you.”

“Speaking of lies and knight commanders,” Bethany said.

“Right.” Brenna took a steadying breath and stepped away. “That’s another issue we have for you, but that will require moving this conversation to my office.”

“Do you want me to join you?” Bethany asked.

“Absolutely.”

It was a conversation that called for strong drinks, but they settled for tea for the sake of appearances—Mistress Woolsey was busy with preparations for the ball, but not so busy that she wouldn’t take time out of her day to scold the warden commander for being drunk before dinner.

When they were settled, Brenna cast the privacy spell over the door and Leliana studied her as Brenna returned to her desk.

“What do you know about the Circle of Magi in Kirkwall?” Brenna asked.

Leliana sat back folded her hands in her lap. “There have been...rumors of misconduct there. Why?”

“ _Misconduct?_ ” Bethany repeated, incredulous.

“Your family fled to Kirkwall during the Blight, yes?” Leliana asked, and Bethany nodded.

“The templars there aren’t like the ones who served in Lothering. It’s awful.”

Brenna’s mouth twitched with a wry smile. “They do sound quite like the ones at Kinloch Hold, though. Here.” She unlocked a desk drawer, withdrew Ser Alrik’s letter, and handed it to Leliana. “It appears that this templar had corresponded with the Divine about a plan to make all circle mages Tranquil when they reached the age of majority. No Harrowing. No mercy.”

Leliana frowned as she reviewed the letter. “The Divine rejected this plan.”

“Is she aware of how many mages have been made Tranquil at the Gallows? Mages who passed their Harrowing?”

“Innocent mages,” Bethany added.

“I don’t know. I don’t believe so. You have more?”

“Of course.” Brenna withdrew the list of mages Cullen had compiled—she had transcribed it and then burned Anders’ letter. “Ser Alrik performed the Rite on most of these mages, but not all. The knight commander had to know this was happening. She’s complicit in these crimes.”

Leliana’s brow rose at the number of names. “I’ll see what I can do. Where did you get this information?”

“One of my wardens is in Kirkwall,” Brenna said. “He sent me this list, and the letter. He discovered the letter on Ser Alrik’s body when he happened upon it in the sewers beneath Kirkwall.”

“He happened upon it?” Leliana repeated dryly.

“He was looking for entrances to the Deep Roads.” She exchanged a strained look with Bethany, who remained silent. Brenna hadn’t shared the real story of why and how Anders left for Kirkwall, not even with her cousin. The less people who knew the truth, the better. “One of those mages was my mentor in the Fereldan circle, and a good friend. He deserves justice.”

Bethany inhaled a sip of tea and began coughing. Leliana patted her on the back until the coughing quieted. “Sorry,” Bethany said sheepishly.

“I will speak to Most Holy about this,” Leliana said. “You must keep in mind, many circles are experiencing similar tensions. They fear a repeat of Uldred’s uprising.”

Brenna grimaced. “Uldred was a monster, but the Fereldan circle rebelled because of the injustices that took place within it. Mages should not be punished because of what they might do.”

“I agree. You know that,” Leliana reminded her.

“Does the Divine agree?” Brenna asked. “The circle fell at Kinloch Hold because the mages there had no other recourse. Who can they go to for help when the knight commander is part of the corruption? If Knight-Commander Meredith is breaking chantry law, the mages in Kirkwall have no one to turn to.”

Leliana sighed and nodded. “I know. You have my word that I will do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

***

_To Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

_The Gallows, Kirkwall_

_Dear Cullen,_

_Mistress Lirene tells me that you have a future in carpentry based on your growing skill in the trade. I tried to imagine repairing a roof myself, and I admit I couldn’t do it. I abhor heights. My least favorite part of fighting the Archdemon was the fact that the winged bastard chose the top of Fort Drakon for our battle. I refuse to fight flying beasts again._

_It does make me wonder what might have been if our paths had been different. Perhaps your increasing aptitude for carpentry hints that you might have been a builder, or a craftsman. I think I would have enjoyed being a baker. I find peace in making bread, and Magda, the Vigil’s head cook, says I am “passable” at it (which is high praise from her). Though of course had I not been a mage I would have been a noblewoman, and I suspect I would have been unhappy._

_I’m improving at navigating the dangerous waters of polite society, but I have little patience for the trappings of it. In a moment of insanity I agreed to hold a grand ball to celebrate Wintersend, and the details of planning it are absolutely maddening. I would rather spar than dance, though the steps are oddly similar._

_My challenge to you is to share my struggle and find time to practice dancing. Our professions may often call for combat and not celebration, but that does not mean we shouldn’t be prepared to celebrate on occasion. Perhaps we can dance together when I visit Kirkwall._

_Maker Watch Over You,_

_Brenna_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the kudos and the comments! I'm having a lot of fun with this fic.


	13. A Wintersend Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The warden commander hosts a ball at Vigil's Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short, but the upcoming adventures in Kirkwall will make up for that.

Vigil’s Keep buzzed with frantic energy as though some poor sod had stepped in a nest of ghasts. The arrival of the king and queen had only added to the chaos, and Mistress Woolsey barked orders as though Weisshaupt had named her the new warden commander. Brenna tried to stay out of her way, because the rules of this particular battle were foreign to her. There was a reason she had avoided hosting an event like this for so long—Brenna played chess, and a social event such as this was like high-stakes Wicked Grace.

Alistair found Brenna in her office, hiding behind a stack of reports. She motioned for him to enter.

“The door stays open,” Brenna said. “Unless you want to fetch Anora and have her join us.

“What? Why?”

Brenna set her quill aside and sighed. “Because you are a married man, and I am an unmarried woman, and it is improper for us to be alone in a room together. If you have a problem with that I suggest that you direct all complaints to Mistress Woolsey, who has lectured me incessantly about this matter for the past month.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Alistair reached for the door again.

“It’s not, in fact.”

He paused and frowned at her. Brenna folded her hands in her lap and continued. “It’s for the good of the arling. Because if I hear one more idiot muttering rude remarks implying that I’m the king’s mistress I will be forced to decapitate said idiot and place their head on the keep’s wall as an example. And that is bad for morale.”

Alistair pondered that for a moment before smirking. “Not the queen’s mistress?”

“Don’t tempt me. She’s very much my type.” Brenna waved him to the empty chairs in front of her desk.

“Believe me, I know.” Alistair shot one last annoyed look at the open door before taking a seat. “I’d ask her to join us for this chat, but she’s resting now. The journey was rough on her.”

Brenna’s brow rose. “Is she…?”

“No.” Alistair sighed and lowered his voice. “She miscarried again. Maker’s breath. I wish I knew how to help her. This pressure for an heir isn’t fair to her.”

It wasn’t fair to either of them, in Brenna’s opinion, but the need for an heir of Theirin blood was the reason for their unconventional union. Alistair and Anora’s relationship had been understandably strained at first, but over time it had grown into an amiable, almost affectionate partnership. Though he had lost his naïveté during the Blight, Alistair kept his good heart and sense of humor, as well as his weakness for strong, clever women. Brenna and Anora would never be good friends—Brenna had executed the queen’s father, after all—but they respected each other.

“Unfortunately I don’t know how to help her, either,” Brenna said. “Circle magic is focused on preventing pregnancies, not aiding them. Then again, it might do more harm than good if I did get involved. We’ve encountered a growing anti-mage sentiment, and we’ve had problems with a few fanatics who took offense to having a mage as their arlessa.”

“Since when? You haven’t mentioned that in your reports.” He straightened and reached in reflex for the hilt of the sword he no longer carried, always ready to defend her.

“Because I knew you’d react precisely how you’re reacting now. I’m handling it. The more worrisome problem is the people who take offense to the grey wardens meddling in politics. They’re not wrong, and yet here we are.”

Alistair sighed. “I know. That’s why I’m trying to avoid warden matters and focus on the needs of the kingdom.”

Brenna bit back the reply that he couldn’t avoid the taint that corrupted his body, but there was no point in harping on the matter when they knew it all too well.

“I don’t regret my decision to grant the arling to the grey wardens,” he said.

“I know, and I agree with you, but I worry…” Brenna grimaced, and she quickly cast a privacy spell over the open door. It was by far the spell she had cast most often these past few months—she could practically cast it in her sleep.

“What’s wrong?” Alistair asked.

“Something’s going on with the Orlesian wardens. They’ve sent dozens of them to the Free Marches.”

“They’re looking for the thaig your cousins found.”

“You’d think that, except they haven’t approached any of the members of that expedition to interview them. Bethany has been here for months now, and I’m the only one who has filed a report about her experience. They haven’t approached Anders to ask about his maps, or even Stroud, who has a copy of those maps. I was the one who sent Stroud to find the thaig. Not Weisshaupt. Not Orlais. And none of the wardens who have traveled to the Free Marches since have sought him out. So what are they doing?”

“That’s...bad.” Alistair winced.

“Agreed. Which is why I’m going there in Spring to find out. And to meet the rest of my cousins, and reclaim my family’s estate. It’s a multipurpose trip.” Brenna grinned, and Alistair chuckled.

“We’ll have a list of tasks for you as well, considering the amount of refugees still there. Who are you going to leave in command? Nathaniel?”

“No, he wants to come with us. I suspect that he wants to meet Bethany’s family, he’s very taken with her. That leaves you.”

He sighed. “I just said that I’m trying to avoid grey warden matters.”

“But you have seniority in my absence, and a change of scenery might be good for you and Anora. It’s quieter here. More restful. Fresh air. No courtiers.”

“I’ll propose the idea and see what she says.”

“Thank you. How are things in Denerim?”

Alastair shrugged. “Oh, about the same. Too many things that need doing, not enough coin to pay for them, and everyone arguing about the best way to accomplish them.”

“Almost makes you long for some darkspawn to fight, doesn’t it?” Brenna said wistfully.

“I’ll take the Deep Roads over an advisor meeting any day.”

***

One of the many advantages of wearing a tunic instead of a gown was that Brenna was dressed and ready long before Leliana and Bethany. She hadn’t left the pair completely unscathed—Bethany insisted on styling Brenna’s hair into a complex plait that included ribbons braided into its length. It felt odd to wear her hair in anything other than her usual no-nonsense bun, as though her head was somehow unbalanced by its absence.

She greeted her guests as they entered the grand ballroom—apparently the room had once served as the keep’s original armory, but had been modified by Nathaniel’s grandfather. The music was wonderful and the wine was flowing, and, Maker willing, the celebration would be a success and would free Brenna from having to host another one in the foreseeable future.

Brenna ordered Nathaniel to stay by her side—he was adept at dealing with nobility, having been raised in that world. He performed his duties admirably until she heard him inhale a sharp breath. Brenna followed his awe-struck gaze and spotted Bethany, who had been waylaid by a handful of students from the keep’s school. The children had snuck into the hallway to spy on the gala, and Bethany was politely evicting them. Bethany looked spectacular—Brenna knew she would, for they had discussed the details of her gown for almost a solid month. Bethany was bedecked with so many blue and silver adornments that she looked like a grey warden princess.

“Nathaniel Howe,” Brenna said softly. “If you break my cousin’s heart, I will break your legs.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“And your arms.”

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “Understood, Commander.”

“And your fingers, one at a time—”

He was saved from further threats when Bethany reached them. Nathaniel bowed to her and Bethany blushed, and Brenna swallowed a sigh as she realized that her right-hand man was going to be otherwise occupied for the evening. Thankfully the Maker had blessed Brenna with the love of an Orlesian bard, and Brenna waved the couple away as Leliana approached.

Leliana’s gown managed to be fashionable, stunning, and clever all at the same time, and Brenna tugged at her collar as the temperature seemed to rise in the room. Leliana wore warm colors—shades of gold and bronze, trimmed with embroidered sunbursts.

Brenna bowed. “Hello, beautiful. You look radiant.”

“Thank you.” Leliana’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I must say that you clean up well. I think during most of our travels you were covered in mud, blood, and mabari fur.”

“Or we were naked,” Brenna teased, and Leliana laughed. She offered her arm to the bard. “Please help me. My lieutenant has abandoned me to stare adoringly at my cousin, and I have no one to defend me from polite society.”

Leliana smiled. “I will do my best. Though greeting your guests with your Orlesian lover on your arm is considered quite scandalous in Ferelden.”

“Good thing you’re Fereldan and I’m a Marcher, then.”

Chuckling, Leliana took Brenna’s arm and scanned the crowd. “They do look well together.” She nodded toward Nathaniel and Bethany. “You know in some areas Wintersend celebrations involve arranging marriages.”

“Oh? I’d ask if you were planning to propose, but I know you’re married to the chantry. Ow!” Brenna winced. “I swear your elbows are more dangerous than your arrows.”

“Then behave yourself.”

“As you wish.”

The king and queen were the last to arrive, and the first to dance. They also looked well together—Alastair murmured something to Anora, who laughed and blushed. Brenna quashed the jealous twinge in her gut and breathed deep. As the hostess it was her place to join the dance next, so she bowed to Leliana.

“Shall we, my lady?” Brenna extended her hand.

Leliana smiled. “It would be my honor.”

Never one to take the easy route, Brenna had learned both the lead and follow steps for each of the popular dances. Her relentless pursuit of perfection in her lessons paid off as they swept across the floor with the eyes of the guests upon them.

“Smile,” Leliana said. “You look terrified.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll protect you.”

Brenna grinned. “You’re amazing. Have I mentioned that lately?”

“Perhaps, but I could stand to hear it again.”

It felt as though nearly all of her guests wished to dance with their hostess. Brenna obliged enough of them to placate Mistress Woolsey, but she lavished the rest of her time on Leliana. Maker, she had missed her—the way her heart fluttered at Leliana’s smile, how the sound of her laugh instantly lifted Brenna’s spirits. 

Leliana navigated conversations with the nobility with grace and wit, and Brenna was both impressed at her nightingale’s skill and saddened that she couldn’t keep her at her side. Leliana had found her calling in serving the chantry, and Brenna couldn’t compete with the Maker for Leliana’s heart.

Her body, on the other hand...

When they finally snuck away from the party Brenna led Leliana into her office, shut the door and grinned wickedly. “I’ve had some intriguing thoughts about you and my desk.”

“Oh?” Leliana leaned into Brenna’s embrace. “I could be persuaded to entertain those thoughts.”

“I do enjoy persuading you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the kudos and the comments. I've been going through some tough things lately and working on this fic has been much-needed self care.


	14. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden-Commander Amell and Bethany Hawke journey to Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of past abuse and related trauma.
> 
> Let's do the time jump again! Moving from Wintersend to late spring/early summer.

_“I don’t know the rules.” Brenna peered at Duncan, the grey warden who had saved her from execution._

_She cursed Jowan for the thousandth time since she left the circle tower. It would be easier if she could hate Jowan for his idiocy, but she understood his foolish choices all too well. Brenna would have done anything to have prevented becoming Tranquil. She liked to believe that she wouldn’t have embraced blood magic, but if she had been backed into a corner as Jowan had, perhaps…_

_Duncan’s weathered brow furrowed as he prodded the campfire with a damp stick. “What rules do you wish to know? About the recruitment process?”_

_“Yes, I think.” Brenna hugged her knees as she struggled to find the right words to voice her concerns. The world was unfamiliar once she had stepped outside the tower—she hadn’t seen the sun in over a decade. While enchanters were allowed to leave—with the right permission, and not for great lengths of time—apprentices weren’t trusted outside the circle’s walls. The prohibition was for their own safety, they had been told, as though demons lurked just outside waiting to possess unwary young mages._

_She tried not to gape at everything as she followed Duncan like an obedient pup and studied their surroundings. Her senses were bombarded by unfamiliar sensations—she squinted in the bright light and held her hand over her eyes to shade them, and her feet ached from walking on uneven ground as each rock and stone seemed to cut through her slippers. Her face burned from exposure to wind and sun, and she flinched at every strange sound. It was a miserable experience, but when they had stopped to set camp Brenna was faced with the unpleasant fact that she was alone with a man she knew nothing about._

_“Life in the circle is...small,” she said. “The same people, the same routine. I understand how everything functions there. This is—” She waved a hand at the endless evening sky above them. “I don’t remember how to live outside of the tower. I don’t know these rules, and what is expected of me.”_

_“How old were you when you were sent to the circle?” Duncan asked._

_“Eight.”_

_“Ah.” His brow rose. “That’s quite young.”_

_Brenna nodded. Most children didn’t show signs of magic until they were a bit older, perhaps ten or twelve years old, though on occasion children who were younger than Brenna had been when she was taken were brought to Kinloch Hold. Poor wretches who cried themselves to exhaustion, wailing for their mothers._

_Duncan frowned and stroked his beard. “I wish I could give you more time to adjust, but the darkspawn threat will not wait.”_

_“I have read about grey wardens, but the texts were quite old. I’ve also read a great deal about Ferelden history, and classical military strategy. I’m not foolish enough to believe that any of that information is applicable to the current situation.”_

_“Why not?” Duncan quirked a dark, bushy eyebrow._

_“Because the circle would never allow us to study something that might aid us in living outside of their influence. They want us to be helpless without them.”_

_His brow rose, as though startled by her words. “That’s quite astute.”_

_“What do you expect of me?”_

_“Once we reach the camp at Ostagar, there will be—”_

_“No,” she interrupted. “What do_ you _expect of me?”_

_“I’m not certain I follow?”_

_Brenna chewed her bottom lip as she formulated her reply. “The templars have certain expectations of the mages in their care.” Brenna spat the last word as though it tasted foul—she had experienced many things at the hands of templars, but “care” had never been one of them. Well, except for Cullen, who had never raised his hand or voice to her._

_“You were mistreated?”_

_“They do not consider it mistreatment.”_

_“No?” His expression hardened, as though he dreaded hearing the reply._

_“No. They consider it payment.”_

_He scowled in disgust. “Grey wardens have no such expectations. We are family. Should anyone try to force themselves upon you, you are welcome to light them on fire, and then report them to me for punishment.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Really.”_

_“Oh. Thank you.” Her shoulders sagged in relief, but then she straightened. “Please tell me more about Ostagar.”_

***

“Does any of this look familiar to you?” Bethany asked.

Brenna shook her head, her throat tight. “I was kept below deck during the journey to Ferelden. I remember taking the ferry to the Gallows, though.” Her hands tightened on the ship’s rail until her knuckles were white. “I had never been there before. I’d only seen it from a distance—from Hightown. It almost looked small from that height, but as the ferry approached it…” She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to Bethany with a tight smile. “Everything looks enormous to a child, but those slave statues looked like giants. I never forgot them.”

“I hate those things.” Bethany shuddered. “I don’t understand why no one tore them down when it was no longer a slave prison.”

“Because it’s still a prison, and they want us to stay afraid.”

“Are you certain Kirkwall is safe for you both?” Nathaniel asked. “The templars attacked Anders while knowing that he is a grey warden.” Nathaniel’s concern about their safety was his primary argument for why he needed to accompany them on this journey. Not that Brenna had intended to deny his request, but it had been entertaining to watch him compose a variety of official reasons and not the truth that he adored Bethany and wanted to meet her family. If nothing else, she was certain that Nathaniel would pincushion any templar foolish enough to attempt to harm Bethany.

Brenna wasn’t certain what the templars knew when they set the trap for Anders—if the story of Anders’ desertion had spread through the city then the knights might have considered themselves just in hunting him.

“Well, before we left, Alastair informed me that he had sent a letter to the viscount informing him that if any of us came to harm while in Kirkwall, Ferelden would answer.”

“Can he do that?” Bethany asked.

She shrugged. “He’s the king, I imagine he can do whatever he wants.”

Brenna’s mood darkened as the Gallows loomed closer. How did the chantry justify holding mages in a slave prison? Holding _children?_ She had only spent a few days there while they waited for a ship to arrive to take her to Ferelden, but those days had felt like lifetimes. The tiny cell, the heartless templars, the isolation—the experience haunted her nightmares for years.

The ship docked at the Gallows for inspection by the templars—an odd requirement, in her opinion. The templars in Amaranthine had never asked for such oversight. She peered at the two knights who appeared to have barely reached the age of majority waiting at the bottom of the gangplank. Other knights scurried about, engaged in searching other ships that awaited permission to continue on to the city docks. She watched a pair of knights who hurried away to report to their superior, and Brenna fought to hide a smile when they reached him. She would recognize those blonde curls anywhere.

“May I?” Brenna asked the captain.

“Oh, please do,” he said.

Brenna turned to her cousin. “Care to join me?”

Bethany held her hands up. “All yours. Nathaniel and I will watch from here with Captain Gooding.”

“Suit yourself.” She whistled for her mabari, and they sauntered down to join the templars on the dock. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I help you?”

“Are you transporting any mages or dangerous magical items?”

“Yes to both.”

“Are you—wait, what?” The boy blinked.

Brenna tilted her head and tapped her chin. “How are you defining _dangerous_? On a scale of ‘ _may start a fire’_ to ‘ _can incinerate a building’_?”

The pair stared at her blankly as though the harsh midday sun had baked their brains. She almost felt bad for them. Almost.

“You may want to fetch your supervising officer,” she advised. “Go on. I’ll wait.” Brenna shooed the knights away like a nurse sending her charges out to play. When they were out of earshot she looked at her hound. “What do you think? Did we scare them?”

Ser Cullen Barksalot’s ears pricked and his muzzle rose to scent the air, and then he bounded away to greet the returning templars and their captain. The mabari barked and pranced in joyful circles around Knight-Captain Cullen, who had to step carefully to avoid tripping over his namesake. When the group reached Brenna the hound flopped at their feet and rolled on his belly.

“You claim to be transporting mages and dangerous magical items?” Cullen asked dryly.

“Of course.”

“Did you happen to mention that these mages are grey wardens?”

“I did not. Usually the silver griffons give it away.” Brenna brushed the sleeves of her greatcoat as though ridding them of dust from travel. “Do you like it? It’s armor plated, and it has pockets.”

The knight captain sighed and turned to his charges. “This is Warden-Commander Brenna Amell, who is the Arlessa of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden, and a former circle mage.”

“And very dangerous. To darkspawn. You lads aren’t darkspawn, are you?” Brenna peered at them as though expecting hurlocks to burst from their armor.

“No, ma’am,” they replied in unison. Cullen made a choked noise that sounded as though he had swallowed a laugh.

“Good,” she said. “You’re welcome to search the ship, but anything bearing a griffon crest is grey warden property and may or may not explode if opened, so handle with care.”

The knights stared at her owlishly, and then they stumbled up the gangplank after the knight captain waved them on.

“Is there a prohibition against petting mabari while on duty, Knight-Captain?” Brenna asked. Her hound whined and resumed wiggling.

“I’m surprised he remembers me.” Cullen knelt and obliged the dog.

“I read him all of your letters. His favorite is the one where you went swimming along the Wounded Coast.”

Cullen laughed and shook his head. “Good to know.”

“We’re stopping at Mistress Lirene’s first to unload supplies. Care to join us?”

“I would, but I have extra duty shifts today.”

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I could be.” He gave the mabari one last pat and rose.

“Would you do me the honor of joining me at the Hanged Man for a chess game?”

His nose wrinkled. “Can I persuade you to choose a more reputable venue?”

Brenna laughed. “It wasn’t my choice. Apparently my cousins have a fondness for it. Their companions are having a sort of ‘Welcome Home’ party for Bethany. Considering that I drink very little and don’t really know her friends, I hoped that you might rescue me.”

“Ah, well I would hate to leave a lady in distress. Perhaps I can rescue you and escort you to a more hospitable tavern.”

“Oh?”

“A proper Ferelden pub.” Cullen grinned, and a blush warmed her face. He looked well—his health was far better than the thin, exhausted man she had met in the Spoiled Princess.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

***

Nathaniel went ahead to the inn he and Brenna would be staying at in Hightown, and Brenna and Bethany transported the relief supplies to Lirene’s shop in Lowtown. The supplies were distributed with impressive ease and speed—Lirene had the process down to near military precision, which Brenna quite admired. Her presence interfered a bit as many refugees wished to meet the famed Hero of Ferelden, and Bethany had her own admirers due to her adventure in the Deep Roads and the Hawke family fame that had resulted from it. Lirene promptly moved the pair to the side, out of the way, and ordered them to smile and be friendly. Fortunately Bethany was naturally friendly, and Brenna’s social skills had vastly improved since she left the circle, so they managed.

Once the last of the supplies had been distributed, Brenna followed Bethany on the winding journey to her family’s new home in Hightown—or rather old home, as it had once belonged to Bethany’s grandparents before her mother eloped to Ferelden with her father. Bethany kept up a stream of chatter as they made their way up from Lowtown. _That’s the Hanged Man, where we’ll be drinking tomorrow night. That’s where we lived with my Uncle Gamlen. The alienage is that way. Our friend Merril lives there, poor thing..._

Brenna scrutinized every detail of the buildings they passed—the smell of smoke and rotting garbage that clung to the stones in Lowtown, the cracked, worn facades of the houses, and the faded, tattered banners that fluttered in the breeze that wafted up from the docks. Her senses stretched to the limit as she struggled to catch something, anything, that would unlock the memories of her life here. The only thing that felt familiar was the endless series of stairs, bridges, and lifts necessary to reach Hightown.

The air was clearer at this height, free of Lowtown’s fetid smoke. Hightown had a peaceful, serene energy that Brenna recognized as the fragile veneer of polite society. Brenna hated dealing with most nobles, because they were petty, self-centered people who seemed oblivious to the suffering of those around them. Here the nobles literally looked down upon the less fortunate in the city. Would Brenna have become a spoiled brat had she lived here all her life, pampered with every comfort that coin could afford?

_This is where we first met Varric. A thief had picked Marian’s pocket, and Varric shot him through the shoulder. This is where we gathered before leaving for our Deep Roads expedition…_

Bethany trailed off as she stared at the empty plaza. Brenna paused and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’d say that I’m sorry that this happened to you, but I’m not. I like having you with me.”

Bethany smiled. “I’ve missed my family, but I think things worked out well.”

“Because you have a handsome suitor?” Brenna smirked, and her cousin blushed.

“He’s not...we’re not…”

“Completely besotted with each other?”

“I could say the same for you.”

“I’m not besotted with Nathaniel,” Brenna deadpanned, and Bethany sighed.

“Come on, we’re nearly there.”

The Hawke estate was tucked into a corner of the square at the foot of the grand staircase that led to the viscount’s keep. The entrance was nearly hidden by the ivy that framed it.

“This is it,” Bethany said. “We broke into it once, to find our grandparents’ will in the family vault. It’s strange to think that we truly own it now.” Brenna nodded, at a loss for words, and Bethany opened the door. “Mother?”

“Oh, my baby!”

Bethany darted through the foyer and into the main room, and Ser Cullen bounded ahead to greet Marian’s mabari, Raider. Brenna hung back, uncertain of what to do—nervous nausea twisted her gut as it often had in the awkward days after she had left the circle, when she struggled to understand things that the outside world took for granted. Bethany’s mother, Leandra, held her daughter’s face in her hands as though she could scarcely believe that Bethany was real. It was the sort of moment Brenna had dreamt of when she was first taken to the circle, before she had grown out of childish hopes—and hope in general.

She pried her focus away and examined her surroundings. The room had a high ceiling that would be impractical in a Fereldan home—too much open space was difficult to heat. A set of stairs to the left led up to a landing, and Brenna spotted a woman with a concerned expression leaning against the railing. Marian, presumably. Unlike Bethany, Marian kept her dark brown hair cropped short, and her skin was a warmer tan than her sister’s shade. Marian met Brenna’s gaze and they studied each other. Judging by Marian’s frown, she was unimpressed by her new cousin.

“Mistress Brenna?”

She turned and her jaw dropped when she spotted two familiar faces. “Bodhan? Sandal?”

“Enchantment!”

Brenna laughed and approached the dwarves, bending to hug Bodhan. “What are you doing here?”

“Mistress Marian was kind enough to take us in after the expedition. She and Mistress Bethany saved my boy’s life!”

“Enchantment,” Sandal confirmed.

“Well I’m glad to hear that.” Brenna turned and whistled for her hound. “Look who it is!”

Ser Cullen raced across the room and nearly bowled poor Sandal over with canine excitement, and Bodhan chuckled. “Those two were always good friends.”

“Maker’s breath, you look just like Revka,” Leandra said.

Startled, Brenna turned toward her. Leandra Hawke was shorter than Bethany, but there was a strong resemblance between the two women—Marian must favor her father. Leandra had the straight posture of a well-bred noblewoman, but her face had the weathered lines of a farmer’s wife.

“I do?” Brenna frowned. “I don’t remember her.”

Leandra’s eyes widened. “Not at all?”

“Sometimes I think I remember her voice, but…” Mostly she remembered her mother weeping, but that didn’t seem appropriate to say to a woman who had feared losing her daughters to the circle for their entire lives. Marian was still in danger, in fact. Fame was certainly not good for an apostate. It was a miracle she hadn’t been dragged to the Gallows.

“Are you coming down or not?” Bethany asked her sister.

Marian shrugged. “I was waiting for the ruckus to settle. I didn’t want to be trampled by mabari.”

“Being trampled by mabari is a Fereldan rite of passage,” Brenna said.

“True. We were also nearly trampled by the men delivering Bethany’s luggage earlier,” Marian said as she descended the stairs. She hugged Bethany, and then cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you were staying for a month, not moving in.”

Bethany grinned and took her sister’s hands. “Oh! You must see my gowns. They’re amazing.”

The corners of Brenna’s mouth twitched. “Yes, the local merchants were quite relieved to finally have someone in the Vigil interested in fashionable attire.”

“Let’s have some supper,” Leandra said, “and you tell us everything.”

Brenna was quiet for most of the meal, preferring to watch and listen rather than participate. Fortunately Marian and Bethany had an abundance of stories to share about all the things that had happened since Bethany joined the wardens, so Brenna’s silence was hardly noticed. She had found families along her journey—the few people she trusted in the circle, her companions during the Blight, and now her friends at Vigil’s Keep—but always with the knowledge that the relationships weren’t permanent. The Hawke family endured many hardships but still managed to stay together.

Leandra turned her attention to Brenna when the group moved to the sitting room after dinner. “I have the paperwork you’ll need for your meeting with the viscount tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Brenna said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me with this. I’m in your debt.”

Leandra blushed and waved the comment away. “With everything you’ve done for Bethany, I would say I’m in yours, but that is what family is for. Besides, I’ve gone through the process myself so I knew what you would need. Reclaiming your estate may take some time, though.”

“Time isn’t your problem,” Marian said.

“No?” Brenna asked.

“The current tenant is.”

Brenna frowned. “I thought it was abandoned.”

“It was. After Fenris killed the previous occupants.”

Her brow furrowed—she recognized the name from Bethany’s stories as one of her adventuring companions. “Your broody elf friend?”

Marian barked a sharp laugh. “Remind me to tell Varric that tomorrow night. But yes, that’s him.”

“Oh.” Brenna recalled the various tales Bethany had told about Fenris, and then she scowled as anger burned through her. “They sold my family’s estate to slave-owning magister scum?”

“To a Tevinter merchant, actually,” Marian said. “The magister scum borrowed it when his men tried to reclaim Fenris.”

“Bastards. I hope he killed them slowly.” Brenna sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Fenris is welcome to stay, but it might be a non-issue. The viscount might deny my claim because I’m a mage, and if he doesn’t I won’t be able to live here unless Weisshaupt approves my transfer.”

“And if the viscount allows us to establish a warden post here,” Bethany added.

Leandra straightened. “So you could both live in Kirkwall?”

“It’s a possibility.” Brenna tilted her head and stroked her chin. “Though Bethany will need to see how Nathaniel feels about that.”

Bethany gasped. “Brenna!”

Leandra and Marian pounced on the opening and assaulted Bethany with questions about Nathaniel, and Brenna made an exaggerated show of yawning.

“Well, I think it’s about time I retired to my inn. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll see you out,” Marian offered.

Brenna’s brow rose, but she didn’t comment. After saying her goodbyes to Bethany and Leandra she followed Marian out to the entrance.

Marian stopped in front of the heavy wooden door and eyed her speculatively. “How well do you know Anders?”

“Very. Why?” Brenna blinked at the unexpected question.

“You were together in the circle.”

She noted the choice of words—not “in the circle together,” but “together in the circle.” Interesting.

“Is there something between you?” Marian asked. “Romantically?”

“Circle mages have a different concept of romance, but no. I care a great deal for Anders. We’ve been intimate, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Marian snorted. “And circle mages have a different concept of intimacy, too. Right. I just wanted to be sure that this wasn’t going to be a problem between us.”

“Ah. It does beg the question of whose side I’ll take should one of you break the other’s heart, but ideally that won’t become a problem, either.” Brenna shrugged, and Marian laughed.

“Point taken. Do I need to worry about Bethany and this Nathaniel person?”

“He’s my second in command, and he’s a good man. I trust him with my life. I think they’re an excellent match, and I threatened to break every bone in his body if he hurts her.”

“So noted.” Marian opened the door. “Good night, cousin.”

“Maker watch over you.”

***

It was a short, uneventful walk through Hightown to the Top of the World Inn. It would’ve been more cost effective to stay at an inn in Lowtown, but she wanted to be close to her cousins (and Nathaniel wanted to be close to Bethany) so she splurged on the luxury.

The first floor of the inn housed a sprawling, boisterous tavern. Patrons hushed as she passed their tables—apparently they recognized the griffons emblazoned on her great coat that the young templars had not. Nathaniel waited at a table in a quiet corner of the room, along with Brenna’s mustachioed nemesis, Jean-Marc Stroud. She chose a chair beside Nathaniel and nodded to both men.

“Warden Stroud. Report.”

“Commander.” He nodded and straightened. “We made headway into the Deep Roads based on the intelligence from Warden Hawke, but we encountered several collapsed tunnels and have been unable to reach the thaig.”

“We need to rethink our strategy,” she said. “It’s become clear that we can’t retrace the expedition’s route. We’ll need to try new paths.”

“Agreed. We are surveying the area in search of other entrances.”

“Good. Let me know if you need additional resources.” Brenna folded her hands atop the table. “And the rest of our comrades?”

Stroud shook his head. “Still not talking. It is clear that they are searching for something outside of Kirkwall, but for what, I cannot say.”

“They won’t tell you anything about their mission?” Nathaniel asked.

“No. When pressed, they claim that their orders come directly from Weisshaupt and that they are not at liberty to share them.”

“Bullshit.” Brenna scowled.

“Agreed, Commander,” Stroud said. “There is something about them...I do not trust it.”

Brenna cursed again under her breath—that did not bode well. Stroud was not her favorite grey warden, but his judgement was sound. “Where are they now?”

“We encountered a group of them west of the city. They claimed they were headed toward Nevarra.” He trailed off and shrugged.

“We could pay them a visit,” Nathaniel said.

“No. I’ll handle it.” Brenna eyed Stroud. “Do you have any good news?”

Stroud shrugged again. “This tavern has a decent selection of Orlesian wine.”

“I’m not sure that qualifies as good, but if you pick one I’ll put it on my tab.”

Stroud’s brow rose, but he wisely did not argue. He waved down a barmaid and ordered something that sounded pretentious—everything sounded pretentious in Orlesian. The woman returned with a dark green bottle and three cups, and she filled them with ruby red wine.

Brenna raised her glass. “Stand vigilant, my brothers.”

“For we are all brothers and sisters in the shadows,” Stroud replied.

Nathaniel touched his glass to theirs. “And one day we will join those who have gone before. But not this day.”

“Maker willing.” Brenna sipped the wine and frowned—somehow it seemed to taste of despair.

***

_A—_

_Arrived in Kirkwall. New family welcomed me. Old family is hiding something from us. Maybe you can pry some information out of our brethren there while you’re at the Vigil._

_—B_


	15. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden-Commander Amell reunites with Anders, meets the viscount, and makes new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brenna's language is saltier than usual in this chapter, because Anders. Damn it, Anders!
> 
> CW for mentions of past abuse.

Brenna had been prepared for Lowtown’s desperate poverty—there were many places in Ferelden that had been devastated by the Blight and left the local population with nothing. But nothing had prepared her for Darktown. _Maker’s breath._ It was as though someone had filled the worst parts of the Deep Roads with a strange mix of cutthroats and beggars. Each time something moved in the shadows she struggled to keep her spell blades sheathed lest she incinerate some poor sod who had nowhere else to go.

How could Anders make this sewer his home? He chose to live as an apostate in Darktown’s squalor rather than returning to the wardens in Vigil’s Keep, where the Silver Order still held him in high esteem due to his heroics during the darkspawn siege. If she was a romantic, Brenna might think that Anders stayed in Kirkwall out of a growing affection for Marian. Judging by Marian’s comment there was something going on between them.

But she wasn’t a romantic, and she knew damn well why Anders hadn’t come home.

Brenna followed Stroud’s directions to Anders’ clinic and stared at the lit lantern outside the entrance. She doused it with a sharp flick of her wrist, opened the door and barred it behind her.

The clinic was empty at this early hour—though it did beg the question of how one told time in Darktown, where much of the area didn’t see daylight. Her footsteps echoed dully as she crossed the floor. The room looked more like a warehouse than a clinic—an abandoned warehouse that had been picked over by looters.

“I’ll be right there.”

Brenna paused when Anders called out from the rear of the clinic. She breathed deep, stopped in the middle of the room and folded her hands, waiting.

“Sorry about that, I—” Anders froze and his eyes widened. “Brenna.”

Her chin rose a fraction in acknowledgment. They stood in awkward silence and sized each other up. He looked tired—exhaustion lined his face, and hunger added a gaunt edge to his features.

Anders squared his shoulders. “I’m not going back.”

His words hit her like a blow to the gut, but she didn’t reply. She had expected that response, but being proved right didn’t make hearing it any easier. Brenna remained still as a statue, and worry creased Anders’ brow as he took a hesitant step toward her.

“I’ve built a life here,” he said. “These people need me more than the wardens do.”

That was probably true. She doubted that the wealthy citizens of Hightown gave any thought to the needs of the people in Darktown, or Lowtown. The wardens had other healers, even more experienced healers. But that wasn’t why she was there. She had no intention of demanding his return to the wardens.

Anders sighed and rubbed his eyes as though fighting a headache. “I’m sorry. I know I should have told you about Karl but I couldn’t risk contacting you. I thought…”

“You thought I would assume you died.” Her voice remained devoid of emotion, but inside she was hurt and seething. _Damn him._ How could he do that to her? To abandon her without a word and let her think he had been murdered by templars?

“No. Well, yes, maybe a little.” He smiled weakly and closed the remaining distance between them, and when he stopped before her Brenna punched him square in the jaw.

Anders stumbled, unprepared for the impact, and when he turned toward her his eyes glowed with the unholy light of the possessed. She felt the change in him—when Wynne had called upon the spirit of Faith that sustained her she exuded an aura of soothing calm. This felt as though Anders had suddenly been consumed by a raging bonfire.

“ _You dare!_ ”

Brenna flinched—the voice wasn’t that of the Justice she had known, spoken through Kristoff’s body, but she recognized it just the same. 

“You stupid bastard,” she snapped. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“ _You cannot understand. You are their creature._ ” Wisps of supernatural smoke curled from his body as though Anders was truly being consumed from within.

She frowned—whose creature?—and shook her head. “Stand down! That’s an order.”

“ _You do not command me._ ”

“You are still a grey warden and I am still your commander and you will stand down. _Now_.”

He raised his hands to cast a spell and Brenna launched a wave of dispelling magic followed by a mind blast. He flew back and crashed into a table, knocking it aside as he crumpled to the floor. The feeling of heat subsided, and Anders groaned.

“I should have known.” Brenna’s voice dripped with disgust. “We found Kristoff’s body just after you left. I thought it was odd that Justice hadn’t said his goodbyes.”

“I thought I could help him.” Anders pushed himself into a sitting position and glared at her.

“Bullshit.”

“He would have died otherwise. As a friend—”

“ _Bullshit_. Your new companions might buy your ‘out of the goodness of my heart’ story, but I _know_ you. It wasn’t mercy, it was mercenary.” His eyes narrowed, and she continued. “You wanted a contingency plan in case you were caught. A bodyguard the templars would never expect.”

“You’re wrong.” Anders rose and winced as he touched the back of his head. “I couldn’t let him die.”

“You should have let him go.”

“What, like you?”

“What are you talking about?” Brenna scowled.

“You let everyone go because you’re too scared to fight for them.”

Her jaw dropped. “You have a lot of fucking nerve.”

Anders held up a hand and began ticking examples off on his fingers. “Zevran, Leliana, even the damn king of Ferelden. You used every excuse to push them away, like sacrificing your feelings makes you some kind of martyr.”

“You’re one to talk.” Her temper snapped and sparks of lightning danced through her fingers. “You never found a problem you couldn’t run from. How many times did you escape the circle?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? Did you ever consider what happened to the people you left behind when you ran? To me. To _Karl_? You selfish prick.”

“I…” Anders blinked and his mouth gaped like a fish out of water. “You never said anything.”

“Would it have stopped you?” 

He sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Well at least that was honest.” Brenna doused the sparks and waved a hand at the room. “So this is...what, you putting down roots?”

“I’m making a difference here.”

“I don’t doubt that the people need a healer, but—”

“It’s not just that.” He folded his arms. “What did you do with the list of names we sent you? Of the mages who’d been made Tranquil?”

“I gave it to Leliana.”

“And?”

Brenna cocked an eyebrow. “And what? You killed Ser Alrik. Leliana brought it to the Divine, the Divine confronted Knight-Commander Meredith, and Meredith denied all knowledge of his actions.”

“Of course she did.” Anders scowled and then rubbed his jaw. “You hit me.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t stab you, you bloody idiot.”

“Did you come down here just to lecture me?”

“No. There’s no point in lecturing you, because you never listen.” Brenna sighed. “I wanted to know if what Bethany told me was true. Now I know it is.”

“And that’s it?”

Brenna exhaled a shaky breath. What else was there to say? Everything Bethany had said was true, which meant that this was no longer the Anders she had known. That man had died the moment he’d become possessed by a spirit. She wasn’t certain she wanted to know this new Anders.

“For now,” Brenna said. “You can’t outrun the Calling, and you can’t smash the darkspawn taint like a phylactery. There will come a day when you either come home, or you go to the Deep Roads on your own.”

“There’s a cheerful thought.”

“I don’t deal in cheer.”

“Hmm.” Anders tilted his head. “What if you could?”

Her lips twitched in a grim smile. “Well, according to you I’d just push it away. But I think this time I’ll take a page out of your book.”

“Oh?”

Brenna turned on her heel and left without another word.

***

Brenna returned to her inn and donned her shiny set of parade armor, meant for royal occasions and boring parties. Her meeting with the viscount wasn’t until midday, so she wandered the market in Hightown for a bit. The merchants seemed to specialize in expensive, flashy goods—style over substance—and she quickly grew bored.

She ascended the stairs to the viscount’s keep and paused after she entered. The large, open room featured bored nobles and another unnecessarily high ceiling. Did Kirkwall never get cold? Or did they have an endless fuel supply to heat a space this large?

Brenna asked a guardswoman for directions to the barracks, and she pointed Brenna off to the right. More stairs—Maker, she was beginning to despise stairs—then down into the barracks.

“Can I help you, Warden Commander?”

Brenna nodded at the guardsman. “I’m looking for Guard-Captain Aveline.”

“Of course. Through here.”

The guard captain’s office was one of the first sensibly sized spaces Brenna had seen since her arrival, and she appreciated the simple decor. It rather reminded her of her own office, though it needed three times the paperwork stacked atop the desk and a hearth with a snoring mabari before it. Ser Cullen Barksalot was staying in the Hawke manor with Bethany for the duration of their visit, because the inn had refused to let Brenna keep her hound in her room.

Guard-Captain Aveline scowled as she looked up from her reports, but then her eyes widened. “Warden-Commander Amell?”

“Brenna, please.” She smiled and nodded in greeting. She was instantly jealous of the guard captain’s strong build—battle would be much easier if she wasn’t so small and slight. Zevran had helped her adapt her fighting style, but there were days that she missed smashing her shield into her enemy’s face. “Marian mentioned that you wouldn’t be able to join us tonight and I wanted to meet you. Bethany speaks so highly of you it’s as though you’re an honorary Hawke sister.”

“The Hawke family has been very kind to me.” A slight blush stained Aveline’s cheeks. She was fair skinned like Brenna, but Aveline had bright, coppery red hair that reminded her a bit of Leliana. “I’m grateful for them.”

“As am I. Do you have a few moments to talk? I don’t want to interrupt.”

“That’s all right. I should probably take a break. Reports.” She sighed and frowned at the page before her, and then she waved Brenna to an empty chair across from her.

“I understand. Some nights I have nightmares of drowning in a sea of ink.”

Aveline chuckled. “Or being buried beneath a mountain of parchment.” She studied Brenna for a moment before continuing. “By all accounts you’re a woman of action. I doubt you stopped by just to chat. How can I help you?”

Direct—she liked that. “I’ve been working with Mistress Lirene and Sister Constance to help the Fereldan refugees.”

“I’ve heard. Along with Knight-Captain Cullen.”

Brenna fought the urge to blush—at least Aveline hadn’t called him _her templar_. “Yes. I was wondering if you and I could work together. I manage several initiatives in Amaranthine to help displaced Fereldans. I know that some refugees turn to petty crimes to make ends meet. It might be to our mutual benefit if you could send some of these people my way to serve their sentences in Amaranthine, and I can see them settled after their punishment is complete.”

Aveline tilted her head as she considered it. “It’s an interesting idea. I’m open to discussing it.”

Brenna explained the various programs she had put into motion—the schools teaching trades, the craftsmen seeking apprentices, the farms seeking workers, and so on. Aveline was a shrewd woman, and Brenna had a weakness for clever redheads, so by the time Brenna needed to leave for her appointment with the viscount they had drafted the beginnings of a solid plan. 

She thanked Aveline and bid her good day, and she traveled from one side of the keep to the other to arrive at the office of the viscount. She was met by the seneschal, Bran, whose stiff manner reminded her a bit too much of Mistress Woolsey, and then was ushered in to meet Viscount Dumar.

The viscount’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of her. He seemed to be the same age as Leandra—perhaps he shared her cousin’s opinion that Brenna resembled her mother. By all accounts Revka Amell was lovely and sweet natured, the epitome of a gently bred noblewoman—except for the fact that she had fallen in love with an Antivan merchant who was quite prosperous but of common birth. _Maker’s breath._ Zevran was never going to let her live that one down. Her father had taken her mother’s family name, which was making it that much more difficult to trace his origins, and his current whereabouts.

Brenna Amell was nothing like her mother. She was a calculating strategist, scarred and hardened by battle, and right now Viscount Dumar stood between her and regaining her family’s legacy.

Her sharp smile held no warmth as she bowed. “Thank you for seeing me. We have much to discuss.”

***

“You look beautiful,” Bethany assured her for the dozenth time. She stood behind Brenna at the dressing table as she plaited her cousin’s hair.

Brenna scowled. “But it’s a dress.”

“A lovely dress,” Bethany said. Marian poked her head in the room to check their progress, and Bethany turned to her. “Isn’t it a lovely dress?”

Marian’s brow furrowed. “Yes? You’re the fashion expert, not me.”

“Did she do this to you?” Brenna asked Marian, who chuckled.

“Yes. Why do you think I cut off all my hair?” She ran a hand over her dark, close-cropped hair. “It was the only way to save myself.”

“Brat,” Bethany said.

“Pest,” Marian countered. The sisters grinned at each other, and it tugged at Brenna’s heart. Their research had uncovered that Brenna had three sisters and one brother, though their fates were still unknown. “Bethany, your suitor is downstairs. Mother is interrogating him.”

Bethany cursed under her breath. “Go stop her!”

“That’s your job, not mine.” Marian held her hands up. “I’m just the messenger.”

“I can just put my hair up—” Brenna began. Bethany tugged her braid to silence her.

“No. I’m almost done.”

“Thank the Maker,” Marian said. “I’m thirsty, and if we don’t get there soon Isabella will finish off all the good whiskey.”

“They have good whiskey at the Hanged Man now?” Bethany asked, sounding surprised.

“The slightly less terrible whiskey.”

“Done.” Bethany patted her head. “Let’s rescue Nathaniel before she forces him to propose.”

“I’m fairly certain no one would have to force him to do that,” Brenna said. Bethany shushed her and the three women hurried downstairs.

Marian was merciless as she teased Bethany and Nathaniel on the way to the Hanged Man, and Brenna silently enjoyed watching her lieutenant squirm. She wanted to squirm and fidget in her unfamiliar outfit—Bethany was right that the dress was lovely. Brenna had compromised with her cousin and agreed to wear a dress, but only if it was a simple cut, subdued color, and could hide at least two knives. Brenna looked more like a merchant than an arlessa, which was fine with her.

Nervous energy tingled through her limbs like chain lightning—it was foolish to be anxious about seeing Cullen. They had been writing regularly for over two years now. She had worried that the letters would stop once their bet was over, but they hadn’t. They wrote about silly things, always challenging each other to try something new.

If Anders was lost to her, then Cullen was the last tie to her life before becoming a warden.

_You let everyone go because you’re too scared to fight for them._

Anders was wrong—Brenna wasn’t too scared to fight for the people she loved. She simply recognized a losing strategy when she saw one, and planned accordingly.

The Hanged Man was crowded, noisy, and pungent, and Brenna was bewildered by the affection the Hawke sisters had for the place. She narrowly avoided being splashed with stale ale as a drunkard staggered into her path, but she neatly stepped around him and continued following her party through the room and up the stairs at the rear.

Brenna paused in the doorway as Bethany reunited with her friends, and she matched each one with their description from her cousin’s stories. Anders was noticeably absent, likely waiting for Brenna to leave before joining the festivities. The scowling elf with the pale hair and strange markings was Fenris, the willowy elf with the wide eyes was Merrill, the dwarf with the majestic chest hair was Varric, and then there was Isabella, who embraced Bethany and planted a loud kiss upon her cheek.

Isabella spotted Brenna next and grinned. “There’s my favorite grey warden.”

“You don’t visit, you don’t write. I’m really quite hurt.” Brenna placed her hand over her heart as though staunching a wound.

“I’m sorry, love.” Isabella leaned in and kissed her. “How’s our favorite Antivan Crow?”

“He said that when I saw you I should tell you,” Brenna paused and affected her Antivan accent. “‘Isabella, you are the most beautiful and fearsome raider who has ever sailed the seas of my heart.’” She cleared her throat. “He also said a few things I can’t repeat in public.”

“I look forward to hearing them.”

“I intend to enjoy that discussion. Another time, though. Tonight I have a date with an old friend.”

“Oh?”

“Rivaini, stop monopolizing the lady’s time. The rest of us want to meet her.”

Brenna turned to Varric. Of all of Bethany’s friends, he was the one she was most curious about. Varric Tethras looked very much the part of a dashing rogue lording over his kingdom, but her time in Orzammar dealing with King Bhelan had taught her to never underestimate dwarven ambition.

Varric cocked his head as he studied her. “So you’re the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Oh, no.” Brenna shook her head. “The Hero of Ferelden is eight feet tall and shoots lightning from her eyes.”

“And breathes fire,” Isabella added.

“But only after devouring darkspawn whole,” Brenna said.

Merrill’s eyes widened—quite a feat, as she was already as doe-eyed as a halla. “Do grey wardens really eat darkspawn? Anders never mentioned that.”

Brenna shrugged. “Well, when you’re stuck in the Deep Roads, you make do.”

Nathaniel nodded gravely. “They’re surprisingly spicy.”

“Daisy, they’re teasing you.” Varric paused for a beat. “Darkspawn taste like chicken.”

Brenna laughed and took a seat near the end of the table where she could watch the door. She sat back while Bethany and Nathaniel told stories of their adventures in Amaranthine, interspersed with tales of Bethany and Marian’s adventures in Kirkwall. Varric supplied occasional witty commentary, Merrill shifted between confusion and delight, Isabella cracked bawdy jokes, and Fenris—well, Fenris drank and brooded.

Brenna perked up the moment she spotted Cullen in the doorway. Maker’s breath, he did look well in civilian attire—he looked well in general, hale and heartier than he had when he left Ferelden. Perhaps the sea air agreed with him.

“Knight-Captain, you can’t steal my guest unless you join us for a drink first,” Varric said.

Cullen smirked. “I’m afraid I must decline. I’d hate to spend the evening passed out in the alley.”

“Don’t worry.” Varric waved a hand dismissively. “I told Corff to put you on the safe list.”

“Another night, perhaps.” Brenna rose and took Cullen’s arm. “Besides, Anders won’t join you until I leave.” She turned to Bethany. “Enjoy your party, cousin.”

“Don’t stay out too late, Commander,” Nathaniel said. “We’re meeting with Stroud in the morning.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“Stroud?” Cullen asked as he accompanied her down the stairs.

“He’s a warden,” she said. “An Orlesian warden.” They wove through the tavern and escaped into the fresh—or at least fresher—air.

“Is there a problem with the Orlesian wardens?”

Brenna sighed. “A few problems. They’re still touchy about being denied entry into Ferelden during the Blight, and that Loghain captured, tortured, and even killed a few who entered the kingdom anyway. Plus, Orlesians and Fereldans are like oil and water.”

“They’re oil, we’re water?” Cullen guessed.

“Well I for one am a Marcher, good sir.” Brenna smiled and he laughed.

“Of course. I was going to take you to a Fereldan pub, but if you prefer to remain at this fine Marcher establishment…” He smirked as he waved at the entrance to the Hanged Man. Brenna caught his hand and held it, and she tugged him away from the door.

“Not at all. Lead on.”

Cullen led her away as ordered, headed down toward the docks. “How did your meeting with the viscount go?”

“About as well as I thought it would.” Brenna grimaced. “We exchanged polite barbs because I am offended that he sold my family’s estate to a Tevinter merchant, and he is offended that I took offense when as a mage I had no claim to said estate.”

“But you’re a Grey Warden.”

“My point exactly. Perhaps I should have taken you with me to be my advocate.”

“I doubt that would have helped, considering.” He didn’t continue, but he didn’t need to—Brenna was well aware of the local anti-Fereldan sentiment. Mistress Lirene’s letters contained some horrifying tales.

“Did your recruits encounter any other dangerous mages yesterday?”

Cullen groaned. “Andraste save me. Is it that obvious that they’re recruits?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. He shook his head, and she patted his shoulder. “I understand. It’s been an adventure with the recruits at Vigil’s Keep.”

The Fereldan pub was called The Kennels, much to Brenna’s amusement. She almost wished she had brought her mabari, but he wouldn’t have been allowed in the Hanged Man. The establishment was housed within one of the smaller warehouses along the docks, and music and laughter mixed with the sounds of the docks. They entered a small anteroom, and two burly men watched the door. The men greeted Cullen by name and eyed her with curiosity, and they let the couple pass.

They entered the main room of the converted warehouse and looked down into the crowd below. Brenna was impressed by their ingenuity—a full bar, tables, musicians, even a dance floor near the water. A few people called up to Cullen, and then burst into cheers.

Brenna arched an eyebrow. “Do they always do this when you arrive?”

Cullen laughed. “It’s not for me. It’s for you.”

“How…?” She frowned—how could they recognize her when she wasn’t in uniform and without her signature hairstyle?

“It’s Lirene’s doing,” he explained. “She’s been chasing off potential matches by telling everyone that you’re my sweetheart.”

Brenna blushed. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to dance then, won’t we?”

“I did practice. I can almost guarantee that I won’t step on your feet.” He grinned, and something eager and anxious fluttered in her stomach. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” she said. Cullen turned to lead her down the stairs, and she tapped his shoulder. “One more thing.”

“Oh?” He turned to face her and Brenna leaned in and kissed him, much to the crowd’s delight. Heat burned from her flushed face down to her toes, and she smiled at his surprised expression.

“Staking my claim,” she said. “To keep those potential matches at bay.”

“Ah, I see.” He smirked. “We might need a few more of those, just to be certain.”

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever to finish! I promise more Cullen/Brenna cuteness in the future.


	16. Shadows and Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden-Commander Amell revisits her family estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of past suicidal thoughts and implied abuse.

For a wealthy area, Hightown was remarkably unremarkable. The buildings were carved into the same dull stone, and the facade of one home blended almost seamlessly into the next. From the street, her family’s estate looked worn. Neglected. Artfully cultivated ivy clung to the walls of other homes, but here it grew unchecked in some patches and withered in others. Jagged shards of broken glass looked like sharp fangs in windows, as though the house bared its teeth at the square.

The viscount should have given her a discount considering the condition it was in, or at least lowered the price, but for better or worse the building was hers.

Brenna’s mabari raised his muzzle, barked and bounded away. She turned as the hound flopped at Cullen’s feet, and he knelt and rewarded his namesake with a belly rub. The scene might have had a domestic feel if Cullen hadn’t been wearing his templar uniform—his duty shift had just ended. Brenna wore her warden attire, and together they looked like adventurers about to explore a ruin. 

“Knight Captain,” she greeted when the two Cullens joined her.

“Warden Commander.” His brow furrowed as he studied the estate. “It...needs some work.”

“A bit. My tenant hasn’t been concerned with upkeep.”

“Tenant?”

“One of my cousins’ friends. I’ll introduce you if you haven’t met before.”

Brenna inhaled a steadying breath. Thus far nothing in Kirkwall had unlocked the memories of her past, and there was no guarantee that anything in the estate would. The merchant who had purchased it had likely sold or discarded any items her family had left behind. Each day that passed brought her closer to accepting that her life here was gone. Forgotten. It was damn depressing that her past consisted of her time in the circle, and the future that awaited her promised a gruesome death in the Deep Roads.

The Circle of Magi had stolen her past and the Grey Wardens her future.

Cullen took her hand and squeezed it. “You can do this.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I couldn’t refuse a request from the Hero of Ferelden.” He smirked, and she shook her head with a soft laugh.

“I’m not the Hero of Ferelden. She’s ten feet tall and made of stone like a golem. Unfeeling and indestructible. I’m just Brenna.”

“Ah, I see. I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?”

He leaned in as though sharing a secret. “I prefer just Brenna.”

She blushed. “That’s quite un-Fereldan of you.”

“Good thing you’re a Marcher. My secret’s safe with you.”

“Thank you.” She kissed him, and then she squared her shoulders and led them inside.

The door was unlocked, as Marian said it would be. Fenris saw no point in securing it, as both his friends and his enemies were adept at picking locks. Marian had also mentioned that she had recently helped Fenris clean house by disposing of the corpses of the latest round of Tevinter mercenaries who had been hired to retrieve him, and she was grateful for the effort.

The foyer was dark and slightly damp, and the air was tinged with mold, mildew, and decay. “Don’t eat anything here,” she warned her mabari. He whined in reply and sneezed.

An arched entrance led into the great room, which was similarly dark and empty. There should be...something decorative in this room. Paintings, or peculiar sculptures like the one that adorned the hearth of the Hawke estate. Instead the only details in the space were cobwebs and dust, illuminated by a faint light emanating from a doorway at the top of the stairs.

“Fenris?” Brenna called out. Her mabari sneezed again.

“Up here.”

She recognized his voice—it was a mystery how such a skinny frame could produce such a deep timbre.

Ser Barksalot rushed up the stairs, and Brenna followed at a more sensible pace. Fenris was used to Marian’s mabari, so the hound’s arrival shouldn’t startle him.

Three doors waited when they reached the landing—one closed door to each side, and the entrance to the main room in the middle. Fenris sat just inside at a rickety wooden table and he and the mabari studied each other. The only comfort was the small fire burning in what had likely once been a grand fireplace. The few sticks of furniture were battered—possibly from fighting mercenaries—but the focus of the room was the gaping hole in the ceiling.

“Maker’s breath.” Her eyes widened. “Was it like that when you moved in, or did assassins break through the roof?”

Fenris laughed, his smirk nearly hidden by the spill of his pale hair. “It was already damaged, but it has worsened over time.”

“Erosion.” Cullen peered at the hole. “Wind and rain cracks the stone and the supports give way. I think I’ve patched every roof in Lowtown. Twice.”

“Why?” Fenris asked.

“I aid the Fereldan refugees on my rest day.”

“You get a rest day?” Brenna asked with mock surprise. “I knew I was doing something wrong.”

“Like Hawke,” Fenris said. “She never rests. Perhaps it runs in your family.”

At first Brenna had been bewildered by the fact that Marian’s companions called her Hawke, but they referred to Bethany by name (with the exception of Varric, who called her Sunshine). Bethany had later explained that Marian wasn’t fond of her name for some reason or other, and preferred going by her surname.

“Bethany is always busy at the Vigil. She’s been a godsend.” Brenna paused and looked from Fenris to Cullen. “Have you two met before?”

“In passing,” Fenris said. “I was with Hawke when we investigated your disappearing templar recruits.”

“And discovered they were being possessed by demons.” Cullen scowled. “I am grateful for your aid with that matter.”

Brenna nodded slowly. “I remember your letter about that.” Damn blood mages. It was bad enough that they consorted with demons, but forcing innocent people to be an unwilling host for a monster was particularly vile.

Fenris studied her. “You were in the Circle of Magi with Anders.”

“Yes.” Brenna steeled herself—Bethany had several tales of epic arguments between Fenris and Anders.

“Anders prattles on endlessly about how circle mages are oppressed by their templar jailers, and yet you willingly consort with a templar.”

Cullen smirked. “Is that what we’re doing?”

“Hush,” she warned him. “I don’t hate templars. I’ve seen the devastation that blood magic can cause, and the order is the first, best defense against it. I do hate bullies who abuse the power they have over the people in their care, and that problem isn’t specific to templars.” She smiled dryly. “It’s such a _joy_ working with the nobility.”

“So you don’t believe the circle is a prison?” Fenris’s voice was laced with scorn. Brenna didn’t blame him for being skeptical—judging by the few stories she had heard from Bethany, Fenris had myriad reasons to hate mages and magic.

“The Gallows is a prison,” she said. “I don’t understand why the Marchers didn’t raze it after they evicted the Imperium. They could have built a proper, defensible fort in its place, or a port authority.” Brenna shrugged. “I would like to see reforms made within the circle to prevent abuses of authority, and a few other changes that would be a kindness.”

“I have seen what mages define as _kindness_.” Fenris’s scowl deepened.

Brenna folded her hands. “I won’t make the mistake of claiming that cruelty is a trait specific to Tevinter mages. I’ve fought blood mages throughout Ferelden, and I know that Kirkwall has seen its share of them as well.” She looked to Cullen, who nodded. He watched the exchange with quiet curiosity, as though observing a chess match instead of a conversation. “I can’t control the actions of other mages. I can only control my own, and strive to serve that which is best in me, instead of that which is most base.”

Perhaps she would needlepoint that for Bethany in thanks for her father’s good counsel. Mistress Woolsey would approve.

Fenris harrumphed his disbelief but didn’t argue.

She glanced at their surroundings—this was the master suite, and would have been her parents’ bedroom, but she doubted that any of the remaining furniture had belonged to her family.

“Aside from repairing the roof, what would you like done first?” Brenna asked.

“Done?” Fenris repeated.

“I can’t have my cousins’ companion living in squalor. As arlessa I always ensure that my tenants are comfortable.” Brenna turned to Cullen. “You’re not the only one repairing roofs. I’ve had a hand in building new homes and raising barns throughout Amaranthine.”

“The kitchen,” Fenris said.

“Very well. Marian did comment that I wasn’t to improve the wine cellar, because, and I quote, ‘He doesn’t need more glass ammunition to hurl against the walls.’”

Fenris smirked. “Now that the property no longer belongs to one of Danarius’s associates, I’ll curb my urges to redecorate.”

“Thank you. Do you mind if we look around?”

“It is your house now, you hardly need my permission.”

“You’re living here and I’m not, so to my mind I do.”

He nodded and appeared grudgingly impressed. “You have it. You may want to leave your hound here. As Hawke mentioned, there are the remains of my ‘glass ammunition’ in some of the rooms. Tread carefully.”

“Thank you.”

Cullen followed as she returned to the main hall. Brenna stood in the center of the room and frowned. Anxious energy traveled through her limbs in tingling waves as her stomach twisted into knots.

“Where do you wish to start?” Cullen asked.

“I’m not certain. The layout is different from my cousins’ estate, and…” _And nothing looked familiar_. The place dredged up memories of exploring abandoned thaigs and crumbling ruins during the Blight, but nothing related to her family.

“Why don’t we start here?” He waved to the door closest to him. “It’s as good a place as any. We’ll go room to room.”

Brenna nodded and followed his lead as he pushed the door open. The hallway beyond was near pitch-black—as a warden Brenna could navigate in low light thanks to the Blight tainting her blood, but Cullen didn’t have that advantage.

“One moment,” she said. “I’ll cast a light spell.”

Cullen nodded his assent, and Brenna chose a simple spell that created tiny balls of light that bobbed near the ceiling like lazy fireflies. Soft golden light illuminated a tattered maroon carpet runner that spanned the length of the hallway like a long swath of old blood.

“I’ve never seen that spell before,” he said.

“I learned it from another warden mage. Wardens can see well enough in the dark, but you miss fine details that could be important to your mission. Not that there’s much to see here.”

The first room appeared to have been a formal dining hall. The table and chairs were covered with moth-eaten sheets that looked like funeral shrouds in the faint light. Brenna lifted a corner of the cloth covering the table and frowned. It wasn’t right—the room felt off somehow, as though she recognized enough to know that it had another purpose but not enough to remember what that purpose was. A parlor, perhaps.

They moved on to the next room, and the next—her heart raced with anticipation as she entered and fell when nothing miraculous occurred. No new memories, only abandoned spaces dotted with a few pieces of forgotten furniture.

They found the kitchen at the end of the hallway—no wonder Fenris was so thin, subsisting on bread, cheese, and a bit of dried meat. She would address that first, for Fenris would be no help to Marian fighting on an empty stomach. 

The kitchen opened into a small courtyard, and the neglected flower beds were overgrown with weeds. Brenna dropped onto an ancient stone bench and held her head in her hands.

“It’s redeemable.” Cullen sat beside her and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “There’s nothing here that can’t be replaced or repaired.”

“Except for me. I can’t be repaired.”

“I don’t follow?”

“This was my last hope.” She scrubbed her eyes and let her hands fall into her lap. Brenna’s limbs were leaden as her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’ve remembered a few more details since meeting Bethany and corresponding with her mother, but most of my life here is a blank. I thought that being here, walking the halls, would trigger something, but there’s nothing left.”

“We haven’t seen all the rooms.” He took her hands and held them. “We may yet find something, perhaps stored in the cellar. A portrait, or an item with sentimental value that the merchant couldn’t find a buyer for.”

“Perhaps.” She nodded weakly as she breathed deep past the lump forming in her throat. Bethany had mentioned that she and Marian found a few of their family’s things in the cellar of their estate. “It was foolish to hope, but after I met Bethany I couldn’t stop thinking about my past. I wanted to know who I was before before I became a circle mage, or a warden, or any of the other titles I’ve had. When I was just Brenna.”

“You’re still just Brenna.”

“No.” She swallowed hard and leaned against him. “I’m a pawn, moved by the whim of someone else.”

“Come now, you’re at least a knight.” He grinned, and she blushed as her stomach fluttered—she had missed his smile. “Perhaps a bishop.”

“Thank you.”

“This is just a place—stone and wood, nothing more. You’ll remember things when you find your family.”

“If I find them.”

“ _When_ you find them,” he said. “And even if you don’t remember your past when you do, you can make new memories with them, like you are with your cousins.”

Brenna looked at their entwined hands and met his gaze. _New memories._ There was so much pain in their pasts—emotional and physical scars. What if she could build a better life, with better memories?

_You let everyone go because you’re too scared to fight for them._

Family was worth fighting for.

“When did you become so wise?” she asked.

Cullen smirked. “I’m just trying to keep you happy so you’ll still buy me dinner.”

Brenna laughed and felt lighter, as though a weight had been lifted from her. “Definitely. Let’s finish our tour, and after we return Ser Barksalot to the Hawke estate I’ll gladly buy you dinner.”

***

Brenna’s suite at the Top of the World Inn was built in a style that had become familiar to her during her time in Kirkwall—the suite opened into a great room, and a set of stairs led up to a landing that held the entrance to the master bedroom. As such, she hoped that the fact that the bed was out of sight would keep it out of mind as they enjoyed their meal. The strategy worked, after a fashion. They were both a bit nervous during dinner, but once she brought the chessboard out things fell into a familiar rhythm.

She captured a pawn and set it aside. “What does Mia look like?”

Cullen blinked. “My sister?”

“Yes. She wrote to me once, to thank me for asking after your family when I sent aid to South Reach.”

“She did? She never mentioned that.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Maker…” Cullen trailed off as his brow furrowed, and he scratched his jaw. “I didn’t see my family before I left Ferelden. I should have sought them out. I regret that.”

“You were recovering from a terrible trauma. You did what you had to do.” Brenna reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

“I was running from it, and them. And you.”

“I know,” she said softly. She hated that Uldred’s lackeys had used her to torment Cullen.

He straightened and managed a weak smile. “Mia is stubborn, like you. I haven’t seen her in years, but judging by the number of suitors she’s mentioned I imagine she’s grown into a beautiful woman.”

Brenna grinned and sat back. “That must run in the family considering the amount of young ladies that Mistress Lirene steered away from you. It was really quite an impressive number.”

“Oh? Perhaps I’ll ask her about the total some day.” Cullen advanced a knight. “And you? I imagine half the noblemen in Ferelden would happily seek the hand of the Arlessa of Amaranthine.”

She wrinkled her nose at the reminder, and at the unfavorable position Cullen’s move had left her gambit in. “A few from Orlais, as well. I could use Mistress Lirene’s help in keeping them at bay. I deal with enough politics as it is without adding a noble match.”

“You don’t wish to marry?”

“Mages aren’t allowed to marry.” She switched tactics and employed a defensive strategy.

“You’re a grey warden.” Advance.

“Which means that my title isn’t mine, because Amaranthine belongs to the wardens, not to me.” Retreat. “And there’s no point in a noble match when I can’t give my lord husband heirs.”

He paused in mid-motion as he reached for his knight again. Their eyes met as uncomfortable silence settled between them, both afraid to discuss a subject that had been buried years ago. At least Brenna assumed it had been buried—the apprentices often scared each other with stories of how the bottom of Lake Calenhad was littered with the bones of unwanted children birthed by circle mages, but she had no idea if there was truth to the tale.

Cullen opened his mouth to ask a question, but he pressed his lips together in a stern line as though thinking better of it. He changed direction and moved a bishop instead. Brenna’s brow furrowed as she analyzed the move. Interesting.

“You chose to become a templar,” she said. “You weren’t given to the chantry like most.”

Cullen nodded. “I wanted to become a templar.”

“Why?” Brenna advanced and captured another piece.

“I wanted to help people. To do some good.”

“Why not join the army and fight for Ferelden?”

He retreated a space. “The order serves the Maker’s will, and the army serves the throne’s. In theory, at least.”

“The Maker didn’t create the chantry or the circle. Men did.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Cullen studied her for a silent moment. “You don’t hate the circle?”

“As an institution, no. The system is flawed, but it is needed. Do I hate Kinloch Hold? Yes. That system was sorely broken.” She reached for a piece but then paused and withdrew her hand. “Did you know?”

“Know?”

“About the things that went on at Kinloch?” She rose and retrieved a wine bottle and two goblets from a side table—this conversation required a measure of alcohol. She poured a small amount in each and set one before him before returning to her seat.

“Not at first. I was willfully ignorant for a long time, because I didn’t want to believe that the order was capable of that sort of corruption.”

“What opened your eyes?”

“You did.”

Brenna nodded and sipped her wine, which was sour on her tongue. More Orlesian wine—this vintage seemed to taste of regret. “I didn’t choose to become a mage. I didn’t choose to become a warden.” Her lips twitched in a slight smile. “Unless you count helping Jowan escape as choosing to become a warden.”

“Why did you help him?” Cullen’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t understand it. It didn’t seem like you.”

“It wasn’t.” Brenna leaned back and continued to sip her wine. “I told you before that I intended to fail my Harrowing. Jowan came to me when I woke after the test and I was still out of sorts. He had learned that they intended to make him Tranquil. He wasn’t even being allowed to attempt the Harrowing.” She paused and swirled the dark red liquid in her goblet. Even old wounds could still ache, and Jowan’s fate still tugged at her. “Had I been in my right mind, I wouldn’t have agreed to his plan. It was hasty. Flawed. Jowan had never been good at strategy.”

“Then why?”

“Because it should be a choice.” Brenna grimaced and set the wine aside. “I’ve known mages who would have chosen to become Tranquil because they knew they weren’t strong enough to resist demons. But they weren’t given the choice. That decision was made for them, and it’s not right. Jowan deserved the chance to undergo the Harrowing. It should have been his choice, and because it wasn’t it set into motion a chain of events that nearly killed everyone in the village of Redcliffe. And led to me becoming a grey warden.”

“If you hadn’t become a warden, who would have stopped the Blight?”

“Someone else.” Brenna shrugged. “Duncan had visited other places in search of recruits.” She rolled a captured white pawn between her thumb and forefinger. “I’ve been moved from place to place since the day I showed signs of magic. Most mages, like Anders or Jowan, spent their days dreaming of ways to escape. That was never my strategy. Survival has always been my strategy. First in the circle, then in the wardens, and now…” She set the pawn aside.

“Now?”

“I’m tired of surviving. I’m tired of living from one crisis to another and waiting for someone else to give me orders. I want something of my own. That’s why I bought the estate. Even if I can’t live there, it’s mine. Not the wardens’ or the circle’s. Just mine.”

“What would you do, if you could have any life?” Cullen asked. “Without the wardens or the circle. A normal life.”

_A normal life_. In wistful moments she dreamed of a smaller life, a quiet life surrounded by the people she loved. A comfortable home near a village like Redcliffe—a large enough populace to attract trade, but small enough to not be affected by the problems of a city like Denerim. She could sell potions and trinkets in the square on market day. Leliana could work with the local chantry. Zevran might be happy with a place in the local tavern to collect intrigues, like Varric did at the Hanged Man. And Cullen...well, she had no idea if he would want to be part of an arrangement like the one she had with Zevran and Leliana. But if he did, he could serve at the chantry as well.

It would be simple and lovely and it was entirely too painful to contemplate, because it was impossible.

Brenna cleared her throat. “I try not to think about things I cannot have.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best. That way it can’t be used against you.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“They used you against me at Kinloch, as a temptation, but I never gave in.” He exhaled a shaky breath. “I’ve spoken about it with Sister Constance. She thinks that’s why I survived and the others did not. The blood mages kept us alive until we broke. Each time they tempted me I knew it wasn’t you, because I _knew_ you. The real you. The demons only managed a pale imitation. I didn’t give in, and I suffered for it.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached for him but stopped, unsure if he would welcome her touch at the moment, and she laid her palm flat against the tabletop. “I wish I had gotten there sooner.”

“You arrived before the Rite of Annulment, that is what mattered most. They would have killed everyone in the purge, myself included.” He picked up his goblet and gulped a steadying amount of wine.

Brenna sighed. “And here we are. Aren’t we cheerful?”

“We should be.” Cullen straightened. “We survived. We should be celebrating the purchase of your family’s estate. Of finding your cousins.”

“Of my stunning victory.” Brenna advanced her queen. “Checkmate.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed as he examined the board, and then he smiled. “Of my surprise defeat.”

“Well it’s not quite surprising, considering how often I’ve defeated you.” She grinned. “Another game?”

He chuckled. “Yes. I have to defend my reputation.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that your reputation will be quite tarnished by the end of the night.” Brenna smiled slyly and Cullen blushed. “Now, if you’ll reset the board I’ll see about ordering a decent bottle of wine. I’ve had quite enough of this Orlesian swill.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that the next chapter will be the tarnishing of the good knight captain's reputation. 😉


	17. Raised Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Warden-Commander Amell happily tarnishes the reputation of her templar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love scene ahoy!
> 
> CW for mentions of past abuse. Because the Fereldan Circle of Magi.

They raised the stakes of each game as the evening wore on. They started with foolish rewards—a question answered for each piece captured, reminiscent of the challenges they posed to each other in their letters.  _ Who was your first kiss? _ An apprentice named Eleni for Brenna, and a farmer’s daughter named Hannah for Cullen. He blushed at the realization that she had kissed a girl before he had.

_ Who was your first lover? _ Brenna had shared a fumbling encounter in a supply closet with an enchanter named Kaiden. Cullen fidgeted with his glass as he answered—a tryst in the barracks with another templar recruit, a lad named Jace.

“Well, it’s only polite, isn’t it?” Cullen said at her arched eyebrow. His blush deepened as he cleared his throat. “There are more male templars than female, since women tend to join the chantry as sisters or mothers. Better to see to one’s needs with each other instead of...”

“Instead of with the mages.” Brenna smiled dryly. “Do you desire men and women, or are men merely the polite option?”

“Do you desire both?”

“Yes.” Brenna sipped her drink—she had opted for an aged Antivan brandy that was warm and subtly sweet. “In the circle, mages often turn to each other for comfort regardless of their personal preferences, for they are starved for any tender touch or even a moment’s pleasure. But I’ve always had a weakness for a pretty face, regardless of the person’s gender.”

“I see.” Cullen cleared his throat again—if he blushed any harder he might combust. “I...well then yes, I suppose I do.”

Brenna tried and failed to suppress thoughts of the wicked things Zevran could teach him, and how erotic it would be to watch them together. She shifted in her chair as arousal suffused her with eager heat, and then Cullen grinned.

“Checkmate.”

She frowned at the board and then laughed. “New tactics?”

“There’s a knight who has been teaching me Rivanni strategy. It’s...unconventional.”

“I’m sure it is.” She tilted her head. “Care to raise the stakes?”

“How?”

“Lose a piece, lose an item of clothing. Though we would need to move our game to another room, lest we give the good people of Hightown quite a show.” She nodded toward the large windows that looked down on the street below. The view was striking—the lights of Kirkwall glowed beneath them, and moonlight glimmered across the water of the bay. Much too high for someone with a fear of heights, but still striking in a cold-sweat inducing way.

“Not quite the impression of the Hero of Ferelden that they were expecting.” He smirked and gathered the game pieces, replacing them in their case.

“The Hero of Ferelden does have a reputation for her voracious sexual appetite. A mostly undeserved reputation.”

“Only mostly?” Cullen quirked an eyebrow as she picked up the chessboard.

Brenna shrugged and hugged the board to her chest. “The constant threat of impending doom does tend to lower one’s inhibitions. From the stories I’ve heard you’d think I whored my way through the Landsmeet.” She scowled. “But the sad truth is that I fell in love during the Blight.”

“Why is that sad?”

“Because I let them go. Apparently I have a habit of pushing people away.”

“Except for me.”

“Except for you.” Her chest tightened—it would have been simple to forget Cullen after she became a warden, but instead she had sought him out and maneuvered him into writing to her. She could have stopped after the year required by their bet. And yet...Cullen was the one tie to her life as a circle mage that she couldn’t bear to sever.

Brenna picked up her glass and led Cullen upstairs to the suite’s bedroom. She set the board and her brandy atop a side table that had no obvious use other than looking fashionable. She lit the candles with a quick spell and then bent to stoke the fire in the massive marble fireplace.

Cullen whistled low. “I’ve seen barracks smaller than this.”

“My quarters at the Vigil are grander.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “My bed there is large enough to fit myself plus four mabari and one spoiled tabby cat.”

Cullen laughed. “Only four hounds?”

“Have you seen sleeping mabari? They’re complete bed hogs. They spread out in every direction like they’re made of liquid. Snoring, shedding liquid.” She waved him to the chair that accompanied the decorative table, and then she hauled the chair from the dressing table over and sat across from him.

“How did you end up with four hounds?” Cullen began setting up the board.

“An abundance of pups. The Vigil’s kennel has expanded as we’ve been rebuilding the keep. We have hounds bonded with wardens and our soldiers.” Brenna adjusted the position of her queen so the piece was precisely in line with the rest of the row.

She hadn’t taken a lover since Leliana left, and during a particularly nasty series of night terrors her hound decided to rescue her from her dream enemies by drowning her with mabari slobber. After that he insisted on sleeping in the bed instead of on his pillow, and then a trio of his pups kept escaping the kennels to join him in protecting her. Finally the group was completed with the addition of Ser Pounce-a-lot, who had taken to batting her awake regardless of whether or not she had bad dreams.

“Your namesake is the most sought after mabari sire in Ferelden,” she added. “He has pups throughout the kingdom.”

Cullen coughed as though choking. “Oh. That’s...something.”

“If you transferred to the chantry in Amaranthine we could see if one of the pups takes to you.”

His brow furrowed as he pondered the idea, and Brenna chuckled. Trust a Fereldan to be tempted by a mabari when all other offers had failed.

“Shall we begin?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.” Cullen moved a pawn, and the game was on.

Brenna focused on defense—her plan involved allowing him to capture the first piece without making it obvious that she was doing so. He grinned in triumph when he captured a pawn.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Oh, I forgot to mention one thing.” She rose and stood beside the table. “The victor removes the item from the person who lost the piece.”

His eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “Well, then.”

Cullen rose and studied her armored coat. He was taller than her—most people were. Her slight build had led many a fool to underestimate her in combat. They had both left their weapons downstairs, which could prove problematic if they were attacked but thankfully her visit had been free of assassins thus far.

“This has too many buckles.” Cullen frowned and paused in mid-motion as he reached for her coat. Brenna’s breath caught as she placed her hands over his and guided him to the top buckle. 

Cullen unfastened the coat, slipped his hands into the garment and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. He was hesitant at first—each kiss they had shared before had been quick, almost chaste, considering that they weren’t alone at the time. Now they were free to savor the experience, and he kissed her long and slow, as though committing her taste to memory.

Brenna’s heart raced as she leaned into his embrace. He tasted of the Orlesian wine they had shared—a sour note that mourned the time they had lost. When they finally parted they studied each other—he seemed torn between continuing the kiss or continuing the game.

Cullen sighed as he stepped back and helped her remove her coat. “Maker, I think this thing weighs more than you do.”

“Not quite.” Brenna laughed as she took it and carried it to an empty armor stand—she had asked the maid for an extra stand in hope that she could coax Cullen out of his uniform. “I swore I’d never wear another mage’s robe, but I never took to heavy armor. This is a compromise. It’s actually quite light considering the tricks Wade worked into it.”

They returned to the game, and she switched to an Antivan gambit Zevran had taught her—the intent was to first assassinate every piece as though it was an heir in line to the throne before capturing the king. With a sly smile she captured a pawn, set it aside and rose to claim her prize.

She hooked her fingers into his uniform sash and pulled him close for a lingering, seductive kiss. Her hands trembled as she unwound the sash—she had never willingly undressed a templar before, but a sense of peace settled over her as she finally accepted that Cullen wasn’t a templar, he was  _ her _ templar. Her brave knight.

She smiled as she stepped away and draped the sash over the back of her chair. Though she was out of practice, she remembered the steps in removing heavy armor.

“I don’t know how you can walk around in this,” she said. “I thought chainmail was stifling, and this is like strapping a shield to your chest.”

“You get used to it.”

“True. Some nights I slept in my armor during the Blight.”

“And other nights?”

She smiled slyly as she worked but didn’t answer. Cullen arranged the pieces on the armor stand, and then the game continued. Brenna was ruthless. She captured piece after piece, and her aggressive, haphazard strategy left Cullen increasingly unclothed.

Removing the layers of his uniform revealed a firm, well-muscled form that spoke of a soldier who spent a good deal of time training. Brenna respected that—she enjoyed her time in the sparring ring. She tried to quell the desire to compare Cullen to Alistair, but both men were handsome Fereldans with charming smiles that made her heart flutter. She lost Alistair to Anora and the needs of the kingdom, but Cullen...she simply had to find the right strategy to fight for a future together.

Despite his confusion, he captured pieces as well. Brenna’s breath caught when he knelt before her to remove her boots, a gesture she never would have thought could be erotic and yet the sight of him on his knees suffused her body with hungry heat. Next she lost the layers of clothing above her waist until only her chemise remained.

Cullen captured her remaining knight, but instead of approaching her he pulled his chair back and then patted his lap in invitation. Brenna’s brow rose as he extended a hand, and he guided her into straddling him so they sat face to face. Her hands rested on his bare shoulders as he unlaced the ties of her chemise.

“You’ve seen a bit of sun for someone covered in armor all day.” Brenna stroked his chest, studying the planes and contours of his body and the scars etched into his skin. She didn’t ask about their origins—Zevran and Leliana had fascinating tales of how they received their scars, but Cullen’s were likely a result of his torture at the hands of Uldred’s blood mages.

“Can’t repair a roof in armor.” Cullen smirked, and she chuckled. She closed her eyes and licked her lips at the thought of him stripped to the waist, his sweat-slicked form gleaming in the afternoon sun.

“Remind me to thank Lirene later.”

He gently removed the garment and added it to the growing collection on the floor beside the table. Brenna blushed under his regard and cleared her throat.

“They’re not much,” she said. She was both enamored and jealous of Leliana’s fuller breasts. Isabella’s were spectacular.

“I disagree.” Cullen cupped her breasts and she shivered. “I think they’re perfect.” He leaned in for a kiss as he caressed her bare skin, but then he frowned as his fingers skimmed the thin scars that crisscrossed her back. “What happened? These aren’t from battle.”

Brenna stiffened—he didn’t know. She had wondered if he heard the tale while at Kinloch, or if the knight commander had told him outright to discourage Cullen’s interest in her. Her throat tightened and she shook her head.

“I’ll tell you the story, but not tonight.” She traced the line of his jaw as she held his gaze. “Tonight is for the present, not the past.”

“All right. I believe it’s your move.”

She grinned. “Of course.”

The game continued until finally Cullen had only his smallclothes left, and Brenna grinned in triumph when she captured a piece.

“I’ve wanted to do this for years.” She rose and drew him to his feet.

“Oh?” He cleared his throat as she positioned him into standing beside the table.

“I would never have acted on it when I was in the circle, but a person is entitled to their fantasies.” She hooked her thumbs in the band of his smallclothes and slid them to the floor, moving with the garment until she knelt before him. “Now that is quite the broadsword, Knight-Captain.” She stroked his hard cock and took him into her mouth.

He gasped. “Maker’s breath!”

She smiled as she teased his thick length with her tongue—it was true that she had fantasized about this. He was the only templar she would have happily gone to her knees for, and she had imagined what it would have been like to share a stolen moment with Cullen at the circle, where the fear that they could be discovered at any moment added a rush of adrenaline to their pleasure.

His hands brushed her hair, urging her on as he moaned his approval. The sound sent an eager shiver through her, down to her curling toes. She stroked and sucked, pleasuring him with her lips and tongue as he breathed her name like a prayer.

“Enough,” he murmured in warning.

Brenna hesitated for a moment and pondered bringing him to completion, but the desire to take him to bed was too strong. She sat back and glanced up at him, admiring the flush of his skin in the soft light.

“Do you concede?” She rose and picked up her glass.

“I do have checkmate in three.”

She sipped her brandy and smiled, then set the drink aside. “Well then, I suppose I concede.”

Wasting no time, he pulled her against him for a rough, fiery kiss that left her breathless. The last of their patience had been spent during the game, and all that was left was raw need. She stripped her remaining clothing, and then they tumbled into bed. He rolled her beneath him and trailed kisses from her throat to her breasts, and she arched against him as he laved a taut nipple with his tongue. One hand dipped between her thighs and he stroked her slick sex. Brenna moaned and writhed beneath him as he teased her aching bud and sensation built in intense waves. Cullen pumped his fingers into her and she bucked wantonly against them.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?” He murmured against her skin.

“Make love to me.”

Cullen positioned himself between her parted thighs and she wrapped her arms around him. They kissed as he thrust into her, and his mouth muffled her eager moan. She tilted her hips to take him deeper, and Brenna clung to him as they took up a hurried pace. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of his skin—sun, sweat, leather and armor polish. The pleasure spiked and she cried out as her climax jolted through her. Cullen followed soon after, moaning her name as he spilled inside her.

“Are you all right?” Cullen asked.

“Better than.” She nuzzled his neck with a sated sigh. Maker, she wanted this future, a life with Cullen.

“Worth waiting for?”

“Hmm...we may need a few more rounds, just to be certain.”

He chuckled. “Good thing we have all night.”

All night, and a little less than a fortnight left before she returned to Amaranthine. She silently vowed to make every moment count.


	18. Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which parting is such sweet sorrow, and the Hero of Ferelden joins the mage resistance.

There were many things Brenna would enjoy doing with her remaining time in Kirkwall, and meeting with Anders was not one of them. She had outright refused his invitation at first—she had said everything she cared to say to him and considered the matter closed. But Bethany convinced her to attend, as apparently she had been invited as well and wanted Brenna’s support in refusing to participate in whatever ridiculous scheme Anders was plotting.

Bethany led her to Darktown through a secret entrance in the Hawke estate’s cellar, and Brenna wondered if her family’s estate had one as well. It would explain how Fenris disposed of the bodies of the mercenaries who attacked him. Her cousin unbolted the door, and the musty cellar’s air shifted to the stink of Darktown’s unwashed desperation.

The lantern outside Anders’ clinic was dark, indicating that the healer didn’t want to be interrupted. Brenna pulled the door open and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at the sight of Marian waiting with Anders. She shut the door behind Bethany, barred it and cast a privacy spell.

“Somehow I doubt you simply wanted to wish us farewell before we returned to Amaranthine.” Brenna studied the room’s layout in case Anders lost control again and she needed to hurl him into a stack of crates. The place stank of old blood and recent infection underlaid with the earthy scent of elfroot.

“This is more important.” Anders folded his arms and frowned.

Marian sighed and rolled her eyes. “Dear, we talked about this.” She waved Brenna and Bethany to two chairs positioned opposite them. The wooden table wobbled as though a raised voice would topple it. “Please, have a seat.”

“What are you up to?” Bethany perched on the edge of a chair that groaned beneath her weight.

“We need your help,” Marian said. Anders opened his mouth to argue and she pointed a warning finger to shush him. “I’m not having this argument again. You lost. Move on.”

“What argument?” Brenna asked.

Marian shrugged. “Anders thinks you’re on the chantry’s side because you’re fucking a templar. I, on the other hand, have more faith in my family’s good sense.”

“On the chantry’s side in what?” Brenna frowned and glanced at Bethany, who shrugged.

“Mage’s rights,” Anders said. “You stopped caring about circle mages the moment you joined the wardens.”

“Maker’s breath.” Brenna scowled—the accusation hit her like a punch to her gut, but she disguised her hurt with disdain. “That’s a steaming pile of druffalo shit.” She turned to Marian. “What do you want?”

Her cousin squared her shoulders. “We’re part of the mage underground. It’s a group of like-minded apostates who are working together to free circle mages.”

“Marian!” Bethany gasped. “Does Mother know what you’re doing?”

“No, and she doesn’t need to. She’d just worry about me.”

“Because you’re putting yourself in danger,” Bethany said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“If money and a title could protect you from the circle,” Brenna said, “I wouldn’t have been sent to Ferelden.”

Marian nodded. “I understand. We’ve been careful. We have a solid system in place for getting mages out of the Gallows.”

“I’ve personally led three mages to freedom,” Anders said.

“Freedom?” Brenna’s brow furrowed. “How did you destroy their phylacteries?”

“Well...we…” Anders stammered as his righteous bravado evaporated.

“You didn’t destroy their phylacteries?” Brenna asked.

“No. There was no way we could gain access to them.” He straightened as though offended.

“So you didn’t actually lead those mages to freedom,” Brenna said. “The templars will catch them.”

Anders scowled. “You don’t know that.”

“But you do,” she countered. “You were caught seven times. You know the punishments that await escaped mages. Your underground is doing more harm than good.”

“I told you that she wouldn’t help us,” Anders said. Marian placed a hand on his shoulder and murmured something soothing to him.

Brenna sighed and glanced at Bethany to gauge her reaction. Bethany had a soft heart, and the sisters had lived with the constant fear of being discovered by templars and ripped away from their family.

“This is why we need your counsel, cousin,” Marian said. “We want to ensure that the mages we help are safe after their escape. The conditions in the Gallows are horrendous, and Meredith tightens her grip on the circle every day.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Brenna said. “A slave prison isn’t designed for comfort, and the knight commander clearly has no problem shirking chantry law, but sneaking mages out of the circle isn’t the answer. You’re stoking the fire of Meredith’s fears.”

“You would do nothing?” Anders asked. “Leave our people to suffer?”

“Our people?” Brenna’s brow rose—this was Justice’s influence. Anders was never concerned with mages’ rights before his possession.

“You’ve already forgotten the mages you left behind?” Anders asked.

“You’re one to talk. Or is this some sort of penance for those seven escapes?”

Anders’ eyes flashed and wisps of ethereal smoke rose from his head and shoulders. Brenna tensed and readied her dispelling magic. Marian rose and slammed her hands on the table, which wobbled from the assault.

“That’s enough,” Marian snapped. “Andraste’s ashen ass, you two fight like an old married couple.”

The moment passed, and Anders slumped and held his head in his hands.

Brenna’s lips twitched in a sad smile. “We didn’t before.”

“What sort of aid are you asking for?” Bethany asked. “We can’t help you sneak mages out of the Gallows all the way from Amaranthine.”

“No,” Marian said. “But we can send them to you in Amaranthine for protection.”

“If you want me to conscript mages I’m already planning on doing that before we leave.”

“More than that,” Marian said. “Getting mages out of the Gallows is easy. Everything after that is difficult. Most of them can barely function outside of the circle, much less avoid being caught by templar hunters. If we can send them to you, you can look after them. Teach them how to live on their own.”

“These aren’t stray pups, they’re apostates,” Brenna said. “If you start sending them to the Vigil I’ll have half the templars in the kingdom lying in wait between the port and the keep.”

“Then figure out a way to sneak them through. You’re clever, or so I’ve heard.” Marian smirked. “The ones you don’t conscript can ask the crown for sanctuary, right?”

“In theory, yes.” Brenna leaned forward and folded her hands. “What is your purpose in doing this?”

“To free mages,” Anders said.

She grimaced. “Maker’s breath. You always were shit at strategy. _Why_ do you want to free mages? All mages? Or just the mages in the Gallows? Why them? Because of Knight-Commander Meredith? Would matters improve if she was removed from command?”

“No. The system is broken,” he said.

“Then how do you propose to fix it?” Brenna countered. “Do you want reforms in the circles? Do you have an idea for a better system?”

Anders scowled. “You fix it, you’re the bloody Hero of Ferelden. But these mages need our help _now_. They can’t wait for you to reform the Circle of Magi.”

If she was even allowed to advocate for such a thing—grey wardens weren’t supposed to become involved in political matters. The walking, talking corpse of Sophia Dryden had made that lesson quite clear.

Still...Brenna turned to Bethany. “What do you think?”

Bethany grimaced. “If we don’t help these two they’ll probably get caught and end up in the circle themselves.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Marian smiled dryly.

Brenna swallowed the urge to comment that Anders wouldn’t be put in the Gallows—the templars would kill him the moment his possession surfaced.

“All right,” Brenna said. “Where do we start?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Marian said. “Now, you’re planning on recruiting from the Gallows before you leave, right?”

“Yes.” Brenna nodded slowly—she had a bad feeling about this.

“Good.” Marian grinned. “This is what we need you to do.”

***

On her last morning in Kirkwall, Brenna awoke when Cullen rose from the bed to dress. She studied him in the dim light of the few candles that still burned—his skin was lined with scars like roads on a map. She knew each curve and contour of those scars but hadn’t dared to ask about their origins. They didn’t speak of Kinloch, but the specter of its horrors hovered around them like a topic always on the tip of her tongue. They didn’t discuss the past, nor the future, and their present had finally run out of time.

“Come back to bed.” Brenna patted the warm space beside her that he had vacated. “It’s early yet.”

“It’s not. You slept through the bells.” He turned and smiled, and her chest tightened. Maker, she’d give anything to awaken to that smile each morning.

“No, those weren’t bells. I’m sure it was birdsong. We have time yet.”

“Birdsong?” He quirked a skeptical eyebrow, and Brenna nodded and sat up.

“Nightingales. I’m an expert in nightingale song.” She grinned as his brow furrowed. “Come back to bed.”

He chuckled and obliged her. Cullen pressed her back with a hungry kiss and she wrapped her arms around him. “Of course, if you’re wrong and it is the bells, I’ll be late returning to the barracks. And if I’m caught violating curfew I’ll be whipped.”

Brenna frowned. “Really? That seems extreme.”

“No exceptions.” He nuzzled her neck, and she sighed—she’d keep him here all day if she could, but he had already suffered enough on her behalf. She nudged him until he rolled to his back, and she propped herself up and peered down at him.

“Perhaps it was the bells,” she admitted.

“Oh? I thought you’re an expert in nightingale song?” he teased.

“Most certainly.” Brenna kissed him and smiled sadly. “But I won’t risk you being harmed.”

His expression sobered. “I appreciate your concern.” He stroked her hair and brushed it away from her face. “You could stay.”

She swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”

“It will be worse if I leave.”

Brenna nodded—she understood, though she didn’t like it. Cullen seemed to be one of the few templars in the Gallows who had any sense of honor or dedication to following chantry law. It would be selfish to steal him away.

Maker’s breath, she wanted to be selfish. 

She forced a smile. “You’ll write to me?”

“Of course.”

“Every day?”

Cullen laughed. “I doubt I’d have anything of interest to say if I wrote every day.”

“I’m always interested in what you have to say.”

He blushed—a faint flush of skin in the weak light—and cleared his throat. “Thank you. I have something for you. It’s not much.”

She quirked an eyebrow as he retreated. He knelt and searched through the pile of discarded clothing until he finally found what he searched for. Cullen perched on the edge of the mattress and held out a trinket. A knight chess piece swayed on the end of a slender leather string. 

“It’s not as fancy as the token you gave me, but I’m rubbish at needlework.”

She smiled and studied the knight as it rested in her palm. The piece was carved from a bit of white marble, and grey veins twisted through its pale form. She turned it over and spied a tiny griffon and mabari carved into its base.

Brenna smiled. “I love it, thank you. Will you tie it for me?”

“Of course.”

She turned and swept her hair aside, and Cullen knotted the leather at the back of her neck. The knight laid against her breastbone.

“This way you can keep me close to your heart.” He breath brushed her ear and she swallowed past the knot of emotion squeezing her throat.

“Always,” she promised.

***

Brenna struggled not to stare at the statues of weeping slaves that lined the Gallows’ courtyard like morbid sentinels. Her gut twisted with anxious rage, and she hoped that whoever had decided to house the Kirkwall circle in this cursed structure met an extraordinarily painful death. Life as a circle mage was miserable enough without being reminded at every turn that the chantry owned you, and there was no escape.

“What’s wrong with those mages?” Nathaniel asked. “The ones with the markings?”

He had insisted on accompanying Brenna to the Gallows after seeing that Bethany was safe aboard their ship. They hadn’t included him in their mage resistance plans—she had left that decision up to Bethany. She suspected that Nathaniel had asked for Leandra Hawke’s blessing to marry Bethany, and she was waiting to see how that played out before including him in their conspiracy.

“They’re Tranquil.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’re cut off from the Fade. No dreams. No magic. No emotions.” She glanced at him and noted his horrified expression—he was likely imagining Bethany in such a state. “Most of the Tranquil in the Fereldan circle were slaughtered when the abominations tore through the tower. They were defenseless.”

Nathaniel cursed under his breath and Brenna silently agreed with his sentiment. A disturbing number of Tranquil mages were assembled in the courtyard, selling potions and simple enchanted items. She wondered if any of these Tranquil were the unfortunate souls on the list she had sent to the Divine, or worse, if they had been recent victims of the rite.

Brenna wanted to believe that the knight commander wasn’t continuing to use the rite as punishment, but the amount of Tranquil seemed evidence to the contrary.

Knight-Commander Meredith kept them sweating in the sun-scorched courtyard. It was a standard power play—force your guests to wait to remind them who had the authority. Brenna used it herself on occasion with a few of her more irritating nobles. Instead of allowing the delay to fray her nerves, Brenna used the time to study the people milling about the courtyard. Marian and Anders had provided her with the names and descriptions of the mages they recommended recruiting, as well as their surprise request.

It was a clever idea—Marian’s, of course. Her cousin would make an intriguing chess opponent, though sadly she preferred cards to chess. Brenna was a strategist, and Marian Hawke gambled on luck and bravado.

“Warden Commander.”

Brenna turned. She had watched the approach of the knight commander’s assistant in her periphery—Meredith employed a Tranquil mage as her assistant, because of course she did.

“Knight-Commander Meredith will see you and your lieutenant now.”

“Thank you. Lead on.”

Brenna fell in step behind the woman and quelled the flutter of panic in her chest—her trips to the knight commander’s office haunted her nightmares to this day. She breathed deep and calmed her mind until she was comfortably numb.

Knight-Commander Meredith’s office was surprisingly small and spartan. She sat behind her desk, head bowed as she scribbled an entry into a ledger. Chantry penmanship—the efficient but inelegant scrawl of someone who had learned the basics of literacy due to a religious education. A small number of female templars had served at the Fereldan circle—as Cullen had pointed out, most women in the chantry’s service pursued the cleric’s path. Brenna’s command had been a sort of reward for surviving the Blight, but Meredith must have had a long, bloody fight to battle her way into a command position.

Nathaniel stood silent at Brenna’s side, and she felt a twinge of pride in her lieutenant’s unflinching attention. Strange how the assassins who meant to kill her had become her most trusted allies.

The knight commander set her quill aside and folded her hands. “Be seated, please.”

“Thank you.” Brenna perched on the edge of her chair—armor was never easy to sit in, and she and Nathaniel had chosen their grey warden best for this meeting. Pressed, polished, and ready to do battle. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

“How can I help you, Warden Commander?” Judging by her frosty glare, Meredith did not appreciate sacrificing time on meeting with grey wardens—no point in spending time on niceties.

“I’d like to conscript a few of your mages.”

“A few?” Meredith’s eyes narrowed.

“A dozen, perhaps.” Brenna turned to Nathaniel. “A dozen should do, yes?”

“Two dozen would be better,” he deadpanned. Maker, she hoped Bethany married him, he would make a fine addition to the family.

“Absolutely not,” Meredith snapped.

Brenna shrugged. “I wished to inform you of my plans as a courtesy, and out of respect for your position. I would like to have your blessing, but I don’t need your permission to conscript recruits.”

“That’s preposterous. There is no Blight. Why would you need so many recruits?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss warden matters. So...two dozen should do it, I think.”

Her brow creased as she frowned. “Our circle would suffer from losing so much talent.”

Brenna tilted her head. “Yes, I seem to recall my mentor, Senior Enchanter Karl Thekla, was sent here to remedy a similar problem. Strange that he somehow became Tranquil, and then died while attempting escape.”

“That was an unfortunate incident.” Meredith nearly growled the words, and a vein twitched in her forehead.

“As I understand it, this circle has suffered from several such unfortunate incidents. Most Holy is not pleased.”

The knight commander’s eyes widened at that—it was true, or at least Leliana had implied as much. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that the Hero of Ferelden had the Divine’s ear. Indeed it was somewhat shocking how many important people sought Brenna’s advice based solely on her adventures.

“Five mages,” Meredith said.

“Twelve.”

“Ten.”

Brenna appeared to ponder the offer, even turning to Nathaniel for his counsel—ten had been her true goal. She nodded. “Ten is acceptable.”

“Very well, now—”

“And a templar.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Just one,” Brenna said.

Knight-Commander Meredith stilled like a snake about to strike, and Brenna watched her warily.

“Knight-Captain Cullen is—”

"Oh, Maker, no,” Brenna exclaimed as though scandalized by the idea. “He would never forgive me if I conscripted him. This is another matter entirely.” She leaned forward like someone about to share a confidence. “Grey wardens allow the use of blood magic to fight darkspawn, but I forbid it, and will allow no blood mages under my command. Blood magic is monstrous, and just as dangerous and evil as any darkspawn. There can be no victory against the spawn when our own people embrace such darkness.”

Meredith nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

“I informed Weisshaupt of my decision. Thus far they have respected it, but I have had Orlesian wardens pass through the keep who I suspect are blood mages. It’s only a matter of time before one of them loses control and attacks the people under my care. I’d like to have the security of a seasoned knight who has experience hunting and fighting blood mages living in Vigil’s Keep.”

“You must have templars in Amaranthine.”

“In the city, yes. I’ve asked the local chantry to assign knights to Vigil’s Keep, but they don’t have any to spare. Ferelden is still recovering, and the order’s numbers are spread thin.”

Meredith nodded again, and Brenna sensed an opening.

“I wouldn’t ask for one of your hunters,” she said. “I know you need them here. But if you could spare an older knight, one who no longer serves on your patrols…?”

“I will consider it.” Meredith rose and gestured toward the door. “First Enchanter Orsino can assist you in selecting your mage conscripts.”

“Thank you, Knight-Commander.”

***

_To Serah Marian Hawke, delivered by a courier of House Tethras._

_M—_

_Acquired ten recruits, eight of whom you recommended. We now have a workable number for gathering intelligence. Also, Ser Thrask sends his regards._

_—B_

***

_An excerpt from a letter from Leliana to Brenna:_

_I examined chantry records and discovered the names and locations of your sisters. All of your sisters showed signs of magic and were sent to separate circles. Kerra is an enchanter in the Norden circle in Nevarra. Katalina was sent to the circle in Ostwick, but unfortunately she did not survive her Harrowing. Your youngest sister and your brother are twins, and like Bethany and Carver your sister Reanne showed signs but your brother Javier did not. Reanne was sent to a circle in Ghislain in Orlais. There are no records of what happened to Javier or your father, Benato, though I suspect they may have returned to your father’s home in Antiva. I have sent their information to Zevran in hope that he may be able to learn more._


	19. Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Warden Commander mourns the loss of her cousin Leandra, and Knight-Captain Cullen deals with the fallout of the Qunari attack.

Amaranthine tended toward mild winters, but the morning of Leandra Hawke’s memorial ceremony dawned with a sharp, bitter wind that whistled and wailed through the halls of Vigil’s Keep and heavy clouds on the horizon promised a storm before nightfall. Brenna judged the chill by how much it reminded her of the frozen days she had spent during the Blight trudging through the Frostback Mountains searching for Brother Genitivi and Andraste’s sacred ashes. This was like the worst of that journey, when the frigid nights seemed to stretch on with no hope for the dawn.

The assembled mourners comprised most of the residents of the Vigil—everyone who met Bethany was charmed by her. Nathaniel stood at her side, as he had since Marian’s letter arrived. Marian’s missives to Brenna usually arrived bundled inside her letters to Bethany, but this one had arrived in the opposite—a letter addressed to Brenna, containing the warning of the terrible news that Bethany’s letter held and instructions on how to best prepare her for the blow. Nathaniel had been a rock for Bethany to cling to as she weathered the emotional storm of losing another member of her family.

Brenna envied that unwavering support—the constant weight of so much loss, from her family to the people under her command, was a hard burden to bear.

The crowd parted as Brenna walked through the Vigil’s memorial garden, and she clutched the dried spray of Andraste’s Grace tighter to suppress the urge to tug at the collar of her greatcoat. Brenna had endured many crowds since becoming a grey warden, but she still hated being the center of attention. Everyone quieted when she took her place at the foot of the statue of Andraste, beside the flame that burned to commemorate the honored dead. A layer of snow dusted the statue and cloaked the Lady of Sorrow in glittering white.

“Today we gather to celebrate the life of Leandra Hawke, beloved mother and cousin.” Brenna paused and met Bethany’s gaze, who nodded in encouragement. Bethany’s eyes were reddened, but her head was held high.

Brenna took a calming breath and continued. Like any circle mage, she knew the canticles of the Chant of Light backward and forward. Not by choice—being constantly reminded that magic and mages were responsible for the evils of the world had soured her chantry experience.

“In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction,” Brenna began. The words were hollow to her, but comforting to her audience. “The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,

And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

Brenna beckoned Bethany forward and handed the bouquet to her cousin. Bethany gazed at the statue for a silent moment before tossing the flowers into the flames.

“As Andraste's body was burned,” Brenna recited, “and her spirit ascended to stand by the Throne of the Maker, so too will the spirits of her followers.”

Bethany embraced her, and then she stepped aside to allow Nathaniel to add his offering to the fire. The crowd followed, a few at a time, adding bits of parchment and other odds and ends that reminded each person of their lost loved ones. Bethany and Nathaniel led the recessional as everyone headed back to the keep for the mourner’s feast.

Brenna lingered after the last mourners had left. She withdrew her offering—a scrap of parchment with the Amell crest sketched upon it—and tossed it into the flames for her mother Revka, her sister Katalina, and her cousin Leandra.

Instead of turning toward the keep, she wandered deeper into the garden. Remembrance stones lined the paths, though the names of the lost were obscured by a thin layer of ice and snow. A marble griffon bore the names of fallen wardens, and a pack of granite mabari bore the names of Fereldans who had been lost to the Blight. Brenna knelt before a simple stone slab that bore the Amell crest and trailed frozen fingers over Leandra’s freshly carved name. 

Leandra had known her mother—a fragile link to the family Brenna had lost—and now she was gone, due to blood magic. Brenna’s lip curled in a sneer as her hands clenched into fists.

The sound of armored boots crunching through snow interrupted her anger, and she composed herself with a sharp breath.

“Warden Commander.”

She glanced toward the speaker. “Ser Thrask. Not attending the feast?”

“No. Are you?”

“I’m required to make an appearance.” She sighed and rose, brushing snow from her coat.

Thrask fidgeted with his token, a single dried rose that had darkened to the shade of old blood. “My daughter, Olivia, was a mage—an apostate. Bethany and her sister were there when she died. Olivia had been cornered by slavers, and she resorted to blood magic in an attempt to defend herself. The Hawke sisters tried to save her, but they were too late.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She shuddered—how awful. Brenna gestured towards Andraste’s statue. “Walk with me.”

Thrask nodded and fell in step with her. When they reached the flame he bowed his head before adding his offering to the fire. The dried rose vanished with a crackle and a puff of smoke.

“Is that why you support mages’ rights?” Brenna asked. “Because of your daughter?”

He cleared his throat as he watched the blaze. “She was one reason. I wanted a better life for Olivia. Even before Knight-Commander Meredith, the Gallows was a terrible place. No one deserves to live like that.”

“The Circle at Kinloch Hold may not have been housed in a former slave prison, but it was awful.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Thrask straightened and turned to her. “The work we’re doing—it matters. It will change things.”

“It’s hardly work at this point, merely research, but I hope you’re right.” Brenna smiled dryly and tugged at the collar of her coat. “I’m expected in the banquet hall. Will I see you later?”

“Of course, Commander.”

Brenna made the rounds of the hall, smiling, nodding and offering comfort where needed like a proper arlessa. She had no stomach for food or drink, and as soon as she could manage it she returned to her quarters to change her formal attire for something plainer and far more comfortable. Ser Cullen Barksalot padded beside her as she navigated empty halls and descended into the depths of Vigil’s Keep.

The mage underground needed a quiet, out-of-the-way place to work where they had little chance of being discovered. After much argument, the group had settled on the Howe family crypt. The place was certainly haunted, but Nathaniel had negotiated a peace with his ancestral spirits. More or less—at least they had stopped attacking people.

Thrask was alone in the crypt when Brenna entered. Normally a few other mages would be in attendance, but most of the keep’s inhabitants were still in the banquet hall and would drink into the night.

The Vigil had seen too many memorials. The wardens had a steady stream of recruits after the Blight, but not all survived the Joining. Even before Marian and Anders had recruited Brenna to their cause, apostates had trickled in from all corners of Thedas—now that trickle was likely to become a flood. After the last storm her scouts had found the body of a young mage who had frozen to death, dressed in attire that left the boy woefully unprepared for travel during a Fereldan winter.

Thrask barely noticed her presence as he pored over an open book and scribbled notes into the ledger beside him. He had proved himself a valuable asset—just as Nathaniel had become her steadfast lieutenant in the wardens, Thrask had quickly become her second in command in this endeavor. Marian was certain to gloat about it next time they met, since she had suggested recruiting him.

“Anything of interest?” Brenna asked.

“Quite interesting. This text details the history of the tower that houses the circle in Ostwick, in the Free Marches. It has information on how it was constructed, including a few sketches of the layout.”

She grinned. “Excellent. Good find.”

Brenna crossed to the map of Thedas spread across a heavy oaken table they had hauled down from the library. Pins pierced the map to denote Circles of Magi, templar training grounds, and important chantry locations—they had started with small trinkets to mark areas, but the Howe family spirits liked to move them about.

The initial group of conscripts Brenna had liberated from the Gallows had been chosen for a variety of reasons, but foremost was their experience with other circles. Marian’s goals for the mage resistance had been more complex than Anders’ “free the mages” plan, but they still lacked in overall scope. Sneaking mages out did not address the problems faced by the residents of the Gallows. To accomplish true, lasting change, the resistance needed a solid strategy. Brenna had faith that though previous pleas to the Divine had fallen on deaf ears, Most Holy would listen if they could present evidence that the abuse of mages was common and widespread. The system was broken, but it could be repaired. Reformed.

And, if the Divine did not listen, then the resistance needed a strategy for outright armed rebellion. Brenna wanted to know as much as possible about the field and its players until she could read the lay of the map of Thedas as easily as she did a chessboard. 

Brenna straightened with a grim smile—if it came to it, she would burn the Circles of Magi to the ground and salt the ashes.

One step at a time.

***

_To Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford_

_The Gallows, Kirkwall_

_Dear Cullen,_

_Today we held the memorial for Bethany’s mother. Bethany is heartbroken. She lost her home and her brother to the Blight, and now her mother to blood magic. As I understand it, the malificar who murdered Leandra was a particularly twisted bastard. I hate to think of my cousin suffering at his hands, but at least she is with the Maker now._

_I’ve tried to focus on doing as much good as I can to distract my mind from Leandra’s loss. The schools in the keep and Amaranthine city have been flourishing. Our students have received apprenticeships throughout Ferelden. Repairs on the Vigil continue, though I’m convinced that Voldrik will never be satisfied with our defenses no matter how impenetrable he builds them._

_Despite these blessings, it’s difficult to keep a sunny outlook in the dreary dead of winter. I find myself preoccupied with thoughts of all the people I’ve lost along my journey, as though haunted by the ghosts of those I couldn’t save._

_I miss you._

_I Remain Yours,_

_Brenna_

***

The battle against the Qunari ended as suddenly as it had begun. One moment Cullen’s men had been in the midst of a heated fight to regain control of Lowtown, and the next the Qunari sheathed their weapons and walked away, fading into the smoke and shadows like gray ghosts. At first, Cullen thought it must be some sort of trick, but then word spread that Hawke had defeated the Arishok in single combat and the rest of the horde was leaving.

It was welcome news, but for many it had come too late. Cullen’s focus turned from battle to triage as he worked alongside the remaining city guardsmen to restore order. Lowtown’s wounded were sent to the Hanged Man, and the able-bodied citizens battled to extinguish fires and clear the streets of the dead.

“Knight-Captain Cullen.”

He looked up from the list of fallen templars he had been compiling and nodded in greeting. “Guardsman Donnic. Is it true what they’re saying about the viscount?”

“It is.” Donnic grimaced and shook his head as he surveyed the dead. The bodies were laid in crooked rows—templars, guards, civilians, and Qunari—waiting to be identified before they were burned. “How many have you lost?”

Cullen paused. The order’s fallen ranged from seasoned knights to raw recruits, but the losses that hurt Cullen most were the Fereldan dead. So many faces he recognized—refugees he had helped during his time working with Lirene, friends he had made drinking at the Kennels. Good people who had come to Kirkwall for sanctuary and who were building new lives here, only to be slaughtered by heathen oxmen.

“Too many,” Cullen said. “You?”

“The same.” Donnic’s voice lowered. “It’s going to get bad, isn’t it?” Cullen nodded, and the guardsman sighed. “Maker watch over you, friend.”

“And you as well. If Guard-Captain Aveline needs aid from the order, it may be more...expedient if she contacts me and not the knight commander.”

Donnic nodded. “Thank you, Knight-Captain. I’ll let her know.”

By the time Cullen returned to the Gallows he was covered in soot, drenched with sweat, and exhausted to the point where it was difficult to continue trudging onward. The stench, the sounds—everything reminded him all too much of Kinloch, and he feared the nightmares that awaited him.

He had barely made it past the portcullis to the templar barracks when he was startled by the knight commander calling to him. Cullen snapped to attention as adrenaline surged past his exhaustion.

“Yes, Commander?”

She waved her aide off and beckoned to him. “Report.”

Cullen cleared his throat and launched into a brief description of his defense of Lowtown, followed by the list of casualties. Knight-Commander Meredith nodded—she appeared weary and bloodspattered, but otherwise no worse for the wear. Perhaps the fighting in Hightown was lighter than it had been in the lower areas of Kirkwall.

“Good work, Knight-Captain. Dark times are upon us, Knight-Captain,” Meredith intoned. “We lost several officers this day. We must all work harder to compensate for that loss. The chantry has approved of your charitable activities with the Fereldan refugees, but now I need your focus here.”

“Of course, Commander.” Cullen swallowed the urge to frown. Though he understood the need, his time spent outside of the Gallows had healed his spirit far more than his duties within the circle.

“The viscount’s loss will have grave consequences for Kirkwall. It is our duty to protect the people of this city. There has been too much unrest within the mages, and any chaos here may well attract more malificars.”

“Yes, Commander. I will ensure that our men are ready to do what is necessary.”

She studied him for a moment with narrowed eyes, her assessment icy. “See that you do. We cannot afford to have anyone fall to the temptation of the wicked.”

Cullen had the strong impression that the wicked temptation in question was Brenna. The knight commander had been furious for weeks after Brenna sailed away with her conscripts.

He kept his expression neutral. “Yes, Commander. I understand.”

***

_To Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_

_Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine_

_My Dearest Brenna,_

_Despite everyone’s hope that the Qunari would leave peacefully, they attacked the city without warning and murdered the viscount. Further bloodshed was prevented by your cousin Marian, who defeated the Arishok in a duel, but a great deal of damage had been done._

_I didn’t believe the news of Marian’s victory either, at first. I’m certain she will tell you all about it. The people are calling her the Champion of Kirkwall. It seems that your family does nothing small._

_With the viscount and several noble families gone, the political situation here has deteriorated, a situation made worse by the number of city guards who fell during the battle. The order has stepped in to fill the void, and I fear my letters will be less frequent until the situation stabilizes._

_Know that I am thinking of you and I miss you as well. I may even manage a visit when things calm, since you and Mia are determined to hound me until I agree to one._

_Maker Watch Over You,_

_Cullen_

***

 _M_ —

_I hear The Gallows is vulnerable. Thoughts?_

— _B_

***

 _B_ —

_Several. Varric will arrange a new courier, and then we’ll discuss next steps._

— _M_


	20. Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Except for Knight-Commander Meredith, of course. With the viscount dead, she stepped in to keep order. Things quickly got out of hand. The more she squeezed the mages, the more they resisted. The more they resisted, the tighter she squeezed.”
> 
> —From the interrogation of Varric Tethras by Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast

_The Korcari Wilds seemed tamer the second time around—the wilderness that had first seemed so alien to Brenna after years spent within the walls of Kinloch Hold had become commonplace as she trudged from one corner of Ferelden to another. She swatted away insects that buzzed around her head, drawn by the aroma of old blood and late summer sweat that permeated her armor. Maker, she would kill for a proper bed and a hot bath._

_The journey from Kinloch had wound through miles that had been scorched, trampled, and altogether devastated by the darkspawn horde. Yet this particular swath of land had been strangely left untouched by the Blight, as though even the darkspawn feared venturing too close to a Witch of the Wilds. As Brenna rounded the bend in the path she wondered if she would find the burned ruins of a hut that Flemeth had warned Morrigan about, but instead the old woman stood outside the door as though she had been expecting Brenna’s arrival._

_“And so you return.” Flemeth smiled as she slowed to a halt, and Brenna’s hand trembled where it rested on the hilt of her spellsword. “Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, wouldn’t you say?”_

_Brenna swallowed the urge to reply that Morrigan’s tune was discordant at best and screeching at worst. There was little to find enchanting about playing peacemaker while Alistair and Morrigan constantly sniped at each other. Thank the Maker that she had Leliana and Zevran’s company to preserve her sanity._

_“Do you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids?” Flemeth tilted her head, her tone as casual as though discussing the weather. “Or does this tale take a different turn?”_

_Her jaw dropped—how had she known? Brenna looked like a down-on-her-luck mercenary, not someone on an assassination mission. She had even ordered her companions to wait at the path’s end while she continued on alone. Brenna trusted that Zevran, Leliana, and Ser Cullen Barksalot would keep the secret that she hadn’t killed Flemeth as Morrigan had asked._

_Her pulse pounded—she was prey caught in a predator’s unblinking gaze. It was a familiar feeling thanks to her time spent in the Circle, but Flemeth was no templar, and Brenna had sought her out of her own free will. She forced herself to breathe, cleared her throat and then shook her head._

_“Morrigan asked me to kill you, but that’s not my fight. If she truly wants you dead, she’ll have to do it herself.”_

_Flemeth quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t believe she wants me dead?”_

_“I don’t believe half of what Morrigan says. She has her own agenda.”_

_“Morrigan always did dance to her own tune.” Flemeth’s smile was unsettling, but this time Brenna recognized the expression for what it was—an affectation. Part of the disguise of a crazy old woman. If what she had read was true, Flemeth was old, possibly ancient, but she wasn’t a madwoman. She was remarkable._

_“Why are you here, then?” Flemeth asked._

_“I want to learn.”_

_The smile slipped. “Oh?”_

_Brenna’s chin rose as she folded her hands. “We—or rather Morrigan—found one of your old grimoires in the Circle tower, of all places. She claims that it explains the secret of your long life, that some ritual allows you to move to a new body when the previous one fails. That’s the reason she gave for wanting you dead, so you couldn’t possess her. I read it as well, and I think her logic is flawed. But, as I said, that’s not my fight.”_

_Brenna had erred in giving the grimoire to Morrigan—she should have read it first, instead of simply handing it over out of some misplaced sense of friendship after they left the tower. She had still been in shock at the time—Kinloch Hold had been her entire world, and blood magic had turned it into a living nightmare._

_Once the book was in Morrigan’s possession she refused to let anyone else see it and guarded the book jealously—but not well enough to keep it safe from the nimble fingers of an Antivan Crow._

_Fascinated, Brenna read the grimoire from cover to cover in the light of the campfire until Zevran returned it just before dawn. She had never seen anything like the magic described in the book’s pages—forbidden schools of magical thought that were completely foreign to her. Some subjects, like the possession spell, were too dark for Brenna to ever consider studying, but others held amazing potential._

_She could completely change the field and her place within it. This magic might be the key to transforming her from a pawn to a player—but to truly learn it, she needed more than a grimoire. She needed a teacher._

_“You aren’t afraid I’ll steal your body instead?”_

_Brenna shrugged. “This body is corrupted by the Blight, so I imagine it’s not useful to you unless you’re anxious to die a painful death in the Deep Roads. Plus, if you wished to play at being a Grey Warden you would’ve come with us, too.”_

_“Aren’t you a clever child? What do you offer as payment, then? If what you say is true, then I spent my time and effort in training my dear Morrigan as an investment in my future. Why should I invest in a Grey Warden doomed to die a painful death in the Deep Roads?”_

_“Perhaps you shouldn’t. If what I say is true, then I imagine someone who has lived many lives would have their own perspective on what has real value. I’ve learned that my own perspective differs from those who weren’t raised in the circle.”_

_“Does it? How so?”_

_“If I may...” Brenna carefully withdrew a copper piece from a pouch at her belt and held it up. “A simple bit of metal, but stamp it with the seal of the realm and men will kill for it. Coin means nothing to a circle mage. We neither earn nor spend it. Yet it means a great deal to the chantry, who profits from our research, our talents and our labor. Strange that they call mages monsters and magic a sin, but have no problem gulping down a potion or demanding spells and enchanted trinkets. They condone slavery by declaring it a divine mandate.”_

_“What do you value?”_

_“Knowledge.” Brenna answered without hesitation and tucked the coin away._

_“Why?”_

_“Because once you understand a situation—the players involved, the layout of the field, the possible outcomes and how to best achieve them—then you can control it.”_

_“You desire power.”_

_“No. I was a slave to the Circle of Magi, and becoming a Grey Warden gave me a new master and a longer leash. It isn’t right. I want freedom. I want_ justice _.” Brenna growled the word as her hands clenched into fists. She would bear the scars that the templars had left on her mind and body for the rest of her days, and now she was expected to risk her life to save the same people who considered mages just as dangerous as darkspawn._

_Ending the Blight was the right thing to do, but some nights, when the Archdemon called to her in her dreams, she wanted to let Thedas fester and rot. If she was going to save the world, then by the Maker she was going to make the world worth saving._

_Flemeth studied her with sharp interest. Brenna was awash with insignificance under that gaze, as though the elder mage had reduced her to a tiny, irritating insect with just a glance. But Brenna stood fast, and Flemeth nodded._

_“Come inside. The stew is almost ready.”_

***

“It’s getting worse.”

“No,” Brenna corrected Thrask as they examined the map of Thedas. “It was always like this. We are simply discovering the breadth and depth of the corruption.”

Pins dotted the map in increasing clusters like a spreading pox. As they learned new information they started painting pins different colors to represent different problems—corrupt chantry officials, known abusers, suspicious deaths. In the years since her initial introduction to the mage underground, her efforts combined with Marian’s formed a solid network of spies and saboteurs.

Thus far her agents had been limited to small actions—she had to be careful not to leave any traces that could tie the wardens to the underground. But every truth they exposed was quickly buried beneath chantry propaganda that blamed demons and blood magic, and the people were quick to believe the lies. Better to blame monsters than to acknowledge that the chantry and its templars were capable of being monstrous.

“What do you want to do about our visit to the Nevarran circles?” Thrask asked.

Brenna and Thrask had toured Orlais and the Free Marches and conscripted carefully chosen mages who could help further their cause. One of her first stops had been to conscript her sister Reanne, who quickly proved to be a valuable asset—their father had also taught Reanne to be a strategist, and she honed her skills within the cutthroat politics of the Orlesian Circles of Magi. Brenna intended to find her sister Kerra next, and Zevran continued to search for her father and brother when he could. The Crows had troubled him lately, to the point where he had been forced to flee Antiva.

“I’m not certain.” Brenna sighed and frowned at Nevarra—unlike Ferelden, Orlais and the Free Marches, the Nevarran spot on the map was nearly empty of pins. “Weisshaupt has been inquiring about our recruiting trips.”

“You think they are suspicious?”

“I know they are suspicious. The question is what do they suspect?”

Weisshaupt had granted her a great deal of freedom in her actions—the Grey Wardens had never governed a territory before, so there was no precedent for how to best utilize the arling. Amaranthine flourished under her reign, and Weisshaupt appreciated both the achievement and the gold it brought to the wardens’ coffers.

For now, that was enough to keep the First Warden content. But Brenna was never one to let a useful tool go to waste, and the Grey Wardens were useful to the mage underground in many ways. Some of her recruits wanted to attempt the Joining and become true Grey Wardens, but those who didn’t she declared “dead”—victims of the ritual. Those mages were then spirited away to safe locations via the Deep Roads by wardens who were members of the underground. Between favors from Orzammar and expeditions by her scouts, Brenna had compiled the most complete maps of the local Deep Roads in ages.

“Perhaps we should hold off on the journey,” Thrask said. Brenna grimaced but nodded—she hated to admit it, but he was right. They were drawing too much attention.

Further discussion was halted by Nathaniel’s arrival. “Commander, there’s something you need to see.”

“What is it?” Brenna followed Nathaniel out of the crypt and Thrask accompanied them.

“A stasis glyph on the inner walls caught someone trying to sneak into the keep,” Nathaniel said. Renewing the defensive glyphs was one of the many tasks she had invented to keep the Vigil’s mages occupied.

“An apostate?” Thrask asked. Vigil’s Keep was a beacon for apostates and runaway mages who saw the Grey Wardens as their way to be free of the templars. Brenna constantly clashed with templar hunters pursuing their prey—they accused her of interfering with their divine duties, and she accused them of interfering with her right of conscription.

“No. I believe it is your friend Leliana, but—”

“Leliana?” Brenna stopped at the bottom of the stairs that led up from the keep’s old dungeon. The place was cold and damp enough to discourage most of the vigil’s residents from snooping around, and she had added a few tricks to scare away anyone else brave enough to venture there.

Nathaniel nodded. “Yes. It didn’t hold her long and she’s in good spirits about it. She’s waiting in your office now. The trouble is that one of the patrolmen on duty has recently arrived from Val Royeaux, and he identified her as Sister Nightingale.”

“Sister Nightingale?” Brenna’s brow furrowed. Why did Leliana’s service to the chantry require a pseudonym? _Sister Leliana_ had suited her well enough in Lothering.

“An agent of the Divine,” Nathaniel said. Thrask cursed under his breath.

“You think the Chantry suspects us?” Brenna asked.

“Of rebellion? Possibly,” Thrask said. “We’ve stepped on the Order’s toes often enough.”

“She may just be here for a visit,” Nathaniel said. “She did sneak in last time, yes?”

“She did.” Brenna squared her shoulders. “I’ll see what she has to say. You two spread the word that everyone is to be on their best behavior while she’s here.”

“Yes, Commander,” the men replied in unison.

Brenna’s stomach twisted into knots as she made her way to her office. A visit would be lovely, but she rarely heard from Leliana anymore. Gone were the days of affectionate notes teasing Brenna about her correspondence. Her nightingale had risen through the ranks of the Chantry and was too busy for such things.

A useful friend to have, but if Leliana learned what Brenna had been up to, she might become a dangerous enemy.

Brenna chuckled when she entered her office—Leliana smiled and bent in her chair to rub Ser Cullen Barksalot’s belly. The anxiety in her gut morphed into a pain that squeezed her chest. Maker, she missed this. Anders’ accusation whispered through her mind— _You let everyone go because you’re too scared to fight for them. You used every excuse to push them away, like sacrificing your feelings makes you some kind of martyr._

Brenna had pushed Leliana away, and now she might be lost to her. She swallowed the thought like a dram of poison and forced an easy smile.

“Hello, beautiful. You know you’re welcome to use the front entrance.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Leliana grinned as she rose. She wore plain armor—light and well-made, but without heraldry or insignia. Instead of her bow two sturdy blades were strapped to her back. The nondescript outfit was designed to blend in and be forgotten.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Brenna pulled her close and kissed her. “I could have prepared a proper welcome.”

“Because officially I am not here.”

“Oh?”

“I decided to detour from my official route to sneak in a visit. I’ve missed you.” Her expression softened. “It has been so long since I’ve left Orlais.”

“Poor dear. Surrounded by stinky cheeses and snobby nobles.” Brenna caressed her cheek. New worry lines creased Leliana’s brow, and dark circles were smudged beneath her eyes. “I missed you, too. Was it a long journey?”

“Not long, but trying.” She sighed and smiled wearily.

“How long do I have you, since you’re not officially here?”

“Just tonight. My ship sails tomorrow.”

Relief flooded her—whatever Leliana’s task was, it didn’t involve Brenna’s role in the underground. She was on another mission. “Well, then we’d best make tonight count. Let’s get you out of that armor and into a hot bath.”

After the Vigil’s defenses had been repaired to Voldrik’s approval, Brenna asked him to design a few amenities before he left to pursue his next project. One of those improvements was to install heated Tevinter baths within the keep. At first the dwarf had grumbled that Tevinter bath houses likely used blood magic to keep the water warm, but he had risen to the challenge and devised a system that used “good dwarven engineering and not that Tevinter nonsense.”

The baths were divided between civilian use, the wardens, the Vigil’s soldiers, guests, and finally the arlessa’s bath. Thus far the only visitors who had joined Brenna in her bath were her spoiled mabari hounds, so this was a welcome change. They shared a good soak and a bottle of fine wine, and they discussed highlights of the last few years and memories of their travels during the Blight.

Leliana laughed and a faint blush stained her cheeks. “Maker’s Breath! I'd forgotten about that. Have you heard from Zevran lately?”

“His last letter said he was headed for the Free Marches.”

“So am I. Kirkwall.” Leliana wrinkled her nose. Brenna’s heart skipped a beat—Marian and Anders struggled to support the mage underground in Kirkwall, but the knight commander had cracked down hard in response.

“I’m so sorry. Here.” Brenna picked up the bottle and refilled Leliana’s goblet. “I’d offer you the use of my estate, but my tenant can be a little surly.”

“I don’t expect to stay long. I’m meeting with the grand cleric.”

“Grand Cleric Elthina?” Brenna had met her briefly during her visit—the woman had tended Kirkwall’s faithful for many years, long enough that she remembered Brenna’s family. Marian and Anders were constantly trying to convince Elthina to side with the plight of Kirkwall’s mages and speak out against Knight-Commander Meredith’s cruelty, to no avail.

Leliana nodded. “The situation in Kirkwall has become violent. Most Holy wishes for the grand cleric to take shelter in Orlais until matters are resolved.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to send Meredith to Orlais to stop the violence?”

“Divine Justinia believes that Knight-Commander Meredith has good intentions.” Leliana frowned as she sipped her wine. “Though I agree that her methods leave much to be desired. Regardless, the unrest has been caused by more than Meredith’s actions. We suspect that Kirkwall’s problems are being spurred by an outside group.”

“Kirkwall’s problems have been going on for years. That’s quite a long plot for an outside party to invest in.”

“Perhaps.” Leliana studied her for a silent moment. “You were a circle mage. What do you know about the fraternities of enchanters?”

“Almost nothing. I didn’t become an enchanter. I had only just passed my Harrowing when Duncan conscripted me.”

Leliana nodded. “The Resolutionists were once part of the Libertarian fraternity, but they split off to form a group who want freedom for mages, at any cost. We believe that the Resolutionists are behind the turmoil in Kirkwall.”

Brenna bit her tongue, for she knew all too well who was behind most of the acts of rebellion. Not violence, though—part of their work with the mage underground had been to steer its members away from such things. Perhaps a radical cell had splintered from Marian’s group, composed of shortsighted mages who had no patience for the long game.

“Still,” Brenna said, “the situation would calm if Meredith was reassigned. The mages are resisting her unfair treatment.”

“And that sets a bad example for other circles,” Leliana countered. “You and I have seen firsthand what can happen when a circle is corrupted by blood magic. Divine Justinia takes the situation very seriously. She believes it is the worst threat to Thedas since the Qunari invaded.”

“A threat that could easily be resolved by treating mages with mercy.” Brenna set her goblet down to hide her shaking hands. _Andraste’s ashes_. It was so like the chantry to blame the victims instead of the villains. “Kinloch Hold fell because of corruption among the templars. Uldred would never have risen to power without those abuses.”

“I understand.” Leliana eased close and held Brenna’s hands. “I remember your stories of what happened there. But the uprising at Kinloch Hold is the reason why the whole world is watching Kirkwall. If it falls to magic, none of us are safe.”

Brenna swallowed her rage—how could Leliana remember those stories and still believe that mages were at fault? Her nightingale truly had spent too much time in Orlais. 

She could no longer trust Leliana. This would be their last goodbye.

Brenna squeezed her lover’s hands and miraculously managed a sly smile. “You’re right. You’re not safe. I’m a dangerous mage, and I intend to ravish you.”

***

Brenna stood atop the battlements and watched as Leliana disappeared into the distance. The chill autumn wind seemed to carry Anders’ voice upon it— _like sacrificing your feelings makes you some kind of martyr._

This sacrifice was necessary. It didn’t make her a martyr—it made her a mage. Yet that certainty brought no comfort, only a return of old, hard lessons learned during her time at Kinloch Hold. In the Circle of Magi, a mage could trust no one, not even themselves.

She turned at the sound of a soft step behind her. “Ser Thrask.”

“Commander. Did you learn anything of the Chantry’s intentions?”

“Yes. We must alter our strategy.”

“Oh?”

“There will be no negotiating with the Chantry. The Divine will not listen to reason.”

In fact, Leliana had warned her that the Divine was considering an Exalted March against Kirkwall. Most Holy must have decided that it was simpler to murder mages than to treat them with kindness. With one word Divine Justinia could destroy everything that Brenna and Marian had built, and that made her their enemy, which in turn made Leliana an enemy.

Thrask sighed. “I suspected as much. What do you intend to do?”

The path forward—the only way to see the corrupt brought to justice and to bring peace to the mages who had been abused—would be forged with spell and steel.

“Prepare for war.”

***

_M—_

_Negotiation with the faithful is no longer an option. Employ strategies for fight and flight._

_—B_

***

“I hate Darktown.”

The ancient lift lurched to a halt with a metallic groan, and Cullen breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped onto solid ground. He shared the knight’s sentiment but ignored the muttered comment. The knight commander wouldn’t have tolerated it—Meredith abhorred even a hint of insubordination—but Cullen allowed his patrol a measure of freedom to speak their minds. It was better for morale, and morale at the Gallows was already low.

“Our sources reported that Evelina fled here after Knight-Corporal Nadia’s hunters encountered her.” The reminder snapped his men to attention—Nadia had lost two recruits and one seasoned hunter in that attack, and the news was fresh in everyone’s minds.

Knight-Commander Meredith had intended to give this particular set of tasks to the Champion as a lesson in the dangers of sympathizing with mages, but Hawke had flatly turned her down. Marian Hawke had thrown her unabashed support behind First Enchanter Orsino’s campaign to stop the knight commander’s control over Kirkwall. Hawke was far more likely to help the escaped mages flee the city than return them to the Circle.

Thus the assignment had fallen to Cullen’s patrol. Emile de Launcet had been almost laughably simple to find—the mage had been in the Hanged Man, stumbling drunk and trying to woo barmaids by telling them he was a blood mage. Idiot. He surrendered at the first sight of the templars and returned without incident. Huon, the elf who had fled to the alienage, had proven more difficult. Huon sacrificed his own wife to fuel his blood magic, and the ensuing battle had been quick but ugly. Two of Cullen’s men had been gravely wounded before the elf was put down, and now his patrol was short handed.

“Our best hope of finding Evelina is to locate the children she was sheltering,” Cullen said. “They have an encampment near here.”

“Ser?” Jacques asked. The knight-lieutenant had recently transferred to the Gallows from the Fereldan circle—Cullen had a vague memory of meeting him before leaving for Kirkwall, but much of those last days at Kinloch was a nightmarish blur.

“They’re Fereldan refugees, like Evelina.”

He remembered the mage from Kinloch—a quiet woman who was good with children. During the uprising Evelina was part of a small group who helped protect the youngest mages from harm. She had likewise watched over a small group of orphaned refugees as they fled the Blight before turning herself in to the Kirkwall Circle. Despite her many requests for aid, the Circle refused to help Evelina’s orphans. Insufficient resources, or some other bureaucratic rubbish that had been decreed by the knight commander. The Tranquil had no trouble selling their wares in the Gallows’ courtyard—there should have been enough money to spare a few coins as Evelina asked.

Cullen had done what he could with Lirene’s help, but there were so many refugees that it was easy to lose track of everyone who needed aid. Walter and the others had fallen through the cracks and disappeared into Darktown with the rest of Kirkwall’s poor and desperate.

“This way.” He removed his helmet and hooked it to his belt—for his plan to work, the children needed to recognize him.

He strode through the small marketplace and ignored the furtive glances of the vendors. Whatever illegal goods they had on offer didn’t concern him, because that fell under the purview of the city guard.

The city guard resented the templar patrols. Cullen increasingly found himself in the unwanted position of playing peacemaker between Guard-Captain Aveline and Knight-Commander Meredith, but the unpleasant truth was that the unrest in Kirkwall required more attention than the guard alone could handle. Whispers had begun to spread accusing Aveline of being unfit for the position. Cullen considered the anonymous accusations to be nothing more than barracks’ gossip, but if they continued the matter would soon come to an ugly head.

Lirene had given Cullen a suggestion of where to start looking for Walter, the eldest of Evelina’s charges. The children had turned to thievery, as most of them were small enough to slip in and out of a busy marketplace before their victims realized their purse strings had been cut. Now the streets above were empty during the midday heat and the denizens of Darktown bided their time until the weather cooled.

Walter crouched near a cluster of makeshift tents. The boy was taller and broader than Cullen remembered, but his skinny ginger shadow, Cricket, still remained at his side. The boys rose and tensed to run at the sight of the approaching templars, but they hesitated when Cullen greeted them.

“Walter. Cricket. Mistress Lirene says you stopped coming to chess lessons.” The group he had founded still met at Lirene’s shop, though Cullen’s duties kept him from attending. He missed it—the templars were no longer allowed rest days due to their increased responsibilities within the city and their decreasing numbers.

“Don’t have time for it anymore.” Walter frowned. “You’re looking for Evelina.”

“We are.”

The boy straightened with a defiant tilt of his chin. “I won’t help you hurt her.”

Cullen could lie—it would be gentler than the truth, but Evelina had embraced blood magic and was a danger to everyone around her.

“I understand. I don’t wish to hurt her, but she isn’t well.”

“It wasn’t her fault!” Cricket peered around Walter. “The other templars made her angry. They made her change.”

Cullen nodded—that was consistent with Knight-Corporal Nadia’s report. Her patrol tried to talk Evelina down and convince her to return to the Gallows, but the mage refused to leave without a guarantee that her children would be looked after. When Nadia couldn’t make that promise, Evelina attacked.

“When it was over, she was ashamed,” Cricket continued. “She ran into the tunnels and hid.”

“Shut up, Cricket! Don’t tell them that.” Walter shoved the boy behind him.

“Into the sewer tunnels?” Maker, he had hoped to avoid that possibility. One of his men cursed softly.

“You can’t go there,” Walter pleaded. “She’ll know we told you and she’ll be angry at us.”

“Angry?” Cricket paled and shook his head. “I didn’t like when she got angry. We have to hide.”

The boy bolted and Walter chased after him.

Cullen held up one hand. “Wait. Give them enough of a lead that they won’t hear us follow.” Templar armor made stealth nigh impossible.

“You think they’re going to warn her?” Jacques asked.

“Yes.” Cullen donned his helmet. “They trust her more than they fear her.” Evelina had saved them from the Blight, but they didn’t yet know that she was now as dangerous as the darkspawn.

The boys’ trail led the patrol into the bowels of Kirkwall. At first blush, the name “Darktown” seemed to be a misnomer—sunlight streamed down the lift shaft and shone through the wide gaps that exposed Darktown to the harbor. But Kirkwall had once been a quarry, and the sunlit outskirts of Darktown gave way to a labyrinth of tunnels burrowed into the rock. Forgotten places that never saw the sun, where the darkness pressed close like a second skin and the light of a lantern made a person a target to the creatures hidden in the shadows.

The smell hit them first—the gut-churning stench of stale piss and shit. Water dripped somewhere in the distance and echoed off the stone walls. At least Cullen hoped it was water, but considering the aroma he doubted that they were that fortunate. Skittering, scrabbling sounds whispered in the shadows, and he hoped it meant rats and not giant spiders.

“Should we split off to search the area?” Jacques asked.

Cullen shook his head. “Not here. It’s too dangerous.”

Templars who entered Darktown alone often went missing. Some suspected that the knights were deserters until their remains were discovered, picked clean by thieves and other local vermin.

Cullen took point and followed the fresh set of footprints pressed into the sludge. A few torches provided faint light to navigate by. He doubted that some poor bastard came down to keep the torches lit, more likely it was a lingering enchantment left over from the days when the city was under Tevinter control. Perhaps that was the problem with Kirkwall—a legacy of blood magic soaked into the stone.

The screech of shades was the only warning before the ambush. Cold sweat broke out across Cullen’s skin, but he pushed away the panic that threatened to follow. Demons would always remind him of Kinloch Hold, but Kirkwall had forced him to face those fears head-on. He barked orders and his patrol fell into formation to fight as a unit. The shades surrounded them, but a few shades were hardly a challenge compared to the other horrors they had faced. The templars made quick work of them with only minor injuries and a few new nightmares.

“I think Evelina knows we’re here,” Jacques said.

Cullen nodded. “She can’t be far. We should hurry.”

After surviving a second attack by shades and discovering a few traps moments before tripping them, the patrol rounded a corner and nearly collided with Walter and Cricket.

“Knight-Captain?” Walter skidded to a halt, wild-eyed. “I’m sorry. I thought if we warned her about you she wouldn’t be angry, but then—” 

“It’s all right,” Cullen said. “Where is Evelina now?”

“She’s coming, run!” The boys turned to flee but stopped short as Evelina called their names in a sweet, singsong tone. The patrol shifted formation to shield the children as the mage stepped into view, as though she had materialized from the shadows.

“Knight-Captain?” Walter’s voice cracked on Cullen’s title.

Evelina’s eyes narrowed. “You! You’re Fereldan, like us. Why didn’t you help them?”

“I tried—” Cullen blurted before catching his tongue. The air crackled and snapped around the mage, filled with unnatural power. There would be no reasoning with her—there was nothing left to reason with. Only a shell of the woman she was that would crack and crumble at the slightest provocation and reveal the monster within.

“You tried?” She spat the words like a curse. “You and your kind claim to do the Maker’s work, but you let my children starve in the sewers. I did everything the Circle asked of me, and all I asked in return was that you help them. Why didn’t you help them?”

“Don’t do this,” Cullen said. “Not in front of them. Let them go, Evelina.”

“Never! When I’m finished, my children will have an entire city to play in.”

The magic swelled as her form dissolved and the abomination raged forth. For a fleeting moment Cullen thought of Uldred and his followers—that first rush of adrenaline and fear as chaos erupted—but then the fight was on. Jacques joined him and they charged the abomination while the other less seasoned templars battled the score of shrieks that rose from the muck like living smoke.

Cullen braced his shield as the abomination swung. The impact jarred him, but it gave Jacques an opening and his blade slashed through the abomination’s back. It howled and whirled on the other knight, and Cullen lunged forward. He and Jacques traded roles—attack, defend—and wore the beast down hit by hit. Abominations were frightfully strong but not particularly clever.

Jacques yelped as the abomination caught him off balance and batted the knight aside like a rag doll. Cullen thrust his sword through the beast’s chest and it crumpled. He stabbed it once more for good measure—too many magical creatures had a nasty habit of rising for one last attack—but it stayed dead, and the last of the shades vanished.

Cullen cleaned his sword and sheathed it, and then he crossed to Jacques and held out a hand to help the man up. “All right?”

“Yes, Knight-Captain. Though it will take me a week to get the smell of sewer out of my armor.”

“At least,” he agreed with a sigh. Cullen checked in with the rest of his patrol before turning his attention to Walter and Cricket, who gazed at the abomination’s remains with heartbroken expressions.

“I don’t understand,” Walter said. “Evelina loved us. She saved us! Why would she try to hurt us now?”

“That wasn’t Evelina.” Cullen placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently turned him away from the sight. “Not anymore. It’s best that you remember her as she was. I knew her when I served in Ferelden. She had a good heart.”

Water shook his head, confused. “Then how could she become a monster?”

Cullen grimaced as his gut twisted. _Because she was afraid. Because the Order denied her the only thing she asked for. Because the Gallows was a prison that turned good mages into monsters, or made them Tranquil._

“I don’t know,” he said lamely.

“What do we do now?” Walter asked.

“Here, take this.” Cullen handed him the few coins he had on hand and lowered his voice. “Go to the Champion and tell her I sent you. Tell her what happened here. She will help you.”

Walter’s brow rose. “Really?”

“Really. She’s Fereldan, like us. She’ll know what to do.”

“Thank you, ser.”

***

Back at the barracks, Cullen stared down at the blank parchment and struggled to come up with something pleasant to write to Brenna. The tremor in his hands had followed the return of the nightmares—some days his hands shook so badly that his writing was nearly illegible. Headaches had followed the tremors, all symptoms of too much strain and too little sleep. The mood in the barracks had become tense as nearly all of the templars shared his symptoms as the situation in the city continued to deteriorate.

The situation in Kirkwall balanced on a knife’s edge. It was only a matter of time before blood was drawn.

***

_A letter delivered by a courier of House Tethras._

_To Warden-Commander Brenna Amell_

_Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine_

_My Dearest Brenna,_

_I tried to think of something benign to write, something that wouldn’t cause you to worry, but in truth matters here are grim._

_I’m sure you remember Enchanter Evelina from the Fereldan Circle. She fled to Kirkwall during the Blight and joined the circle here. All she wanted was to protect the orphans who traveled here with her, but the knight commander refused every request for aid. Evelina escaped the Gallows to look after those children, and when she was confronted she turned to blood magic to defend herself. It was a terrible waste of life that could have easily been prevented._

_The chantry teaches us that the Order has dominance over mages by divine right, but I cannot believe that this is the Maker’s will._

_After what I endured in Ferelden, I told myself I would never again question the purpose of the Order, but it grows harder each day to tell whether I serve the templars or the knight commander. It may be that they are no longer one and the same. The fact that we now require a special courier to ensure that our private correspondence remains private is just one more example of that._

_I spend my days trying to do the right thing—for the refugees, the mages, the Order—but it feels as though the more I struggle, the less I achieve._

_I hope that matters are better in Amaranthine. I keep your token with me always, and I continue to pray for the strength to carry the Light._

_I Remain Yours,_

_Cullen_


	21. Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders forces the mage rebellion's hand.

_“I want this story to be told. You’re not the first to get it all wrong. I think I owe Hawke that much.”_

_Varric Tethras stalled for time. It wasn’t the first time he’d spun a story to save his skin, and with any luck it wouldn’t be his last. Soldiers bearing the sunburst symbol of the Chantry dragged him from the Hanged Man and brought him to Bartrand’s abandoned estate for interrogation. It would be a shit place to die if they executed him—poetic, but still shit._

_“If you’re telling the truth.” Seeker Pentaghast’s scowl deepened, which Varric wouldn’t have thought possible. The woman looked as though she’d swallowed something sour and her face had frozen that way. “If you are, then what happened at the Gallows may be far different than we assumed. I need to hear it.”_

_He had no intention of telling her the whole truth—most of_ The Tale of the Champion _was bullshit with a grain of truth sprinkled here and there for dramatic effect and to make it sound plausible. The truth of those final days in Kirkwall would get them all executed on sight instead of being merely “wanted for questioning” by the Chantry._

_Varric studied the Seeker. Instead of a grain of truth he’d given her a few kernels, enough to convince her that she was getting the “real” story instead of the fiction told in the book. The shit that Hawke was into now almost made the destruction of Kirkwall’s chantry seem pale in comparison._

_Almost._

_“Let’s say I tell you, then what?” he asked. “Are you hunting for an infamous apostate? Is that what this is all about? Or is it revenge?”_

_“No. It’s not that.”_

_“Then what about me? If what I tell you isn’t what you want to hear, will you still let me go?”_

_“I will let you go.”_

_He nodded. Not that he believed her—the right hand of the Divine hadn’t marched her uptight ass all the way to Kirkwall for a friendly chat. But the whole damn city witnessed Varric being paraded from Lowtown to Hightown. The resistance had eyes and ears all over Thedas. The more he talked, the more time he bought for word to get to Hawke._

_The Chantry troops were likely banking on that—using his arrest to draw her out. But if they wanted to catch Hawke, they’d need a bigger army._

_Varric smiled and sat back. “Well, now we’re talking.”_

***

After a long, grueling slog through the deep roads and back, all Brenna wanted was a hot bath, a decent meal and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. She had been ill for much of the return trip after locating Stroud’s expedition—bad provisions, though she seemed to suffer most out of the group. Nathaniel teased her that she got the worst because she was the smallest, and she did not stab him out of respect and affection for Bethany.

Instead of a well-earned rest, when Brenna and Nathaniel approached the estate they were met at the door by armed and armored Marian and Bethany Hawke. Bethany and Nathaniel embraced while Hawke explained the situation.

“Orsino and Meredith are at it again.” Hawke sighed and shook her head. “It’s been nonstop between them since we got back. Orsino just sent for me to play peacemaker again.”

“How did your journey go?” Brenna asked.

Their unintended trip to Kirkwall happened when two things happened nearly simultaneously. First, Bethany was attacked while shopping in Amaranthine city by strange Carta dwarves obsessed with acquiring “the blood of the Hawke.” Thankfully Nathaniel was at his wife’s side and the pair of them quickly dealt with her attackers, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that something nefarious was at work.

Second, Stroud vanished. Or rather, Stroud’s latest expedition into the deep roads went long overdue, enough for Brenna to declare them missing. She didn’t trust any of the wardens in the Free Marches to find him—they were still claiming to be on a mysterious mission for Weisshaupt that they refused to discuss with her or the people under her command.

When news arrived that Marian had also been attacked by the Carta, Brenna accepted that a trip to Kirkwall was unavoidable. The timing was rotten—the mage underground was in the midst of a difficult campaign against the chantry. Several of Brenna and Marian’s initiatives had been successful, but others were spectacular failures, usually thanks to Knight-Commander Meredith. The woman seemed to have a knack for sniffing out the subterranean tunnels that the underground used to lead mages to freedom.

The group split almost immediately after the wardens’ arrival in Kirkwall. Varric had located where the Carta was based, and Bethany went with Marian to investigate. Brenna and Nathaniel began the long journey into the deep roads, with only one short night between their arrival in Kirkwall and their departure.

One night—a few scant, stolen hours—would never be enough for Brenna and Cullen. They spent every moment together until they parted in the morning, frustrated by the demands of their responsibilities and all the things they couldn’t change.

Hawke grimaced. “We’re going to need a lot of alcohol for that story. You’re going to _hate_ it.” She turned to her sister and brother-in-law. “Come on, lovebirds. You can snuggle later. We have work to do.”

They made it halfway to the Gallows before encountering First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith in Lowtown, arguing at the bottom of the stairs to Hightown.

At first Brenna paid no attention to the exchange—the afternoon sun beat down without mercy and the sea air added a layer of sticky humidity—and as a grey warden she wasn’t allowed an official opinion on circle matters. Hawke seemed to have the matter in hand as her role of Champion of Kirkwall, so the trio of wardens stood off to the side and looked on in silent disapproval.

“This needs to stop.” Hawke pointed at the pair like an instructor disciplining new recruits. “There must be some way we can work this out peacefully. Like reasonable adults.”

“We could if she would just listen to reason. This is getting us nowhere.” First Enchanter Orsino threw up his hands and turned to start up the stairs. “Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this.”

Brenna doubted that—to her knowledge, Grand Cleric Elthina had been treating the situation like a negligent parent. She only stepped in when the bloodshed escalated, and then she patted the combatants on their heads and sent them to bed without supper.

“Is it interfering if I hit them with a sleep spell?” Brenna murmured, and Nathaniel snickered.

“Only if they figure out who did it,” Bethany said.

The knight commander snarled and grabbed Orsino’s arm. “You will not bring her Grace into this!”

“The grand cleric cannot help you!”

Brenna turned and her stomach dropped as she spotted Anders striding into the fray with a grim expression.

“Should I shoot him?” Nathaniel asked her.

“Maybe. Not yet.”

“I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals.” Anders banged his staff on the stone to punctuate his anger, and he turned to the first enchanter. “Not while those who would lead us bow to their templar jailers.”

“How dare you,” Orsino exclaimed. Brenna silently agreed—from Hawke’s reports, Orsino did everything in his power to protect the mages in his care.

“The Circle has failed us! Even you should be able to see that!” Anders’ eyes briefly flared with the light of Justice’s possession. “The time has come to act. There can be no half-measures.”

“Anders, what have you done?” Hawke asked. The blood drained from her face and she stared at her lover in horror.

“I removed the chance of compromise, because there is no compromise. I’m sorry, love. There can be no turning back.”

“Okay, shoot him,” Brenna ordered.

Before Nathaniel could draw his bow the ground rumbled beneath their boots. Everyone turned as bright red lights shone above them—Hightown, the chantry? _Maker’s breath_. The light pulled apart the chantry’s heavy stone walls and for a ponderous moment they hovered in mid-air, and then everything crashed together in an explosion that rocked the heavens and shook the city to its core.

Brenna stared, dumbstruck. Kirkwall burned, and the heat of the flames and the screams of terrified civilians drowned her in memories of the darkspawn siege of Denerim. Her throat tightened as anxiety squeezed her chest, and her thoughts raced.

_I have to fix this. I need a strategy. I can fix this. Fix it, fix it, fix it..._

Through the ringing in her ears she heard arguing, and one phrase finally cut through the panicked fog— _Rite of Annulment—_ and brought the world back into focus _._

“Every mage in the Circle is to be executed—immediately,” Meredith ordered.

Brenna glanced down and realized she had drawn her spell blades—she would cut Meredith down on the spot before allowing her to enact the Rite of Annulment.

“The Circle didn’t even do this!” Orsino rounded on Anders. “You fool, you’ve doomed us all.”

Anders shook his head. “We were already doomed. A quick death now or a slow one later—I’d rather die fighting.”

“Shut up before I kill you myself.” Hawke glared at Anders, and then she turned to Meredith. “You have no grounds to invoke the rite. The circle is innocent.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Meredith said. “Even if I wished to, I could not stay my hand. The people will demand blood.”

“No,” Hawke replied, “the people will demand justice. There’s no justice in answering the murder of innocents with more murder. Focus on damage control.” She waved an arm toward Hightown. “You’re always prattling on about protecting your city. Gather your men and help them!”

“I am protecting this city from the dangers of magic, starting with this mage.” Meredith pointed at Anders. “This criminal must be executed first.”

Hawke took a deep breath in preparation for telling Meredith off, but Brenna spoke as her strategy finally snapped into place.

“I’ll do it.” Brenna stepped forward. “I made him a warden. He’s my responsibility.” She sheathed her blades, lowered her voice and addressed Bethany and Nathaniel. “Help Marian.”

Anders sat on a crate and held his head in his hands, but Brenna passed him and stopped in front of Hawke. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Her cousin eyed her warily as Bethany and Nathaniel joined her.

“Good. Hit me.”

Marian slapped her hard across the face and Brenna saw stars. She raised a hand and cupped her inflamed cheek as she walked away, and with her free hand she withdrew one of her throwing knives.

“I had to, Bren,” Anders said. “I had to. You and Marian would plot and plan until the damn templars were at our door. Another week, maybe two, and Meredith would know that Marian is—”

“Enough.” Brenna knelt behind him. “Stay down until we’re gone, then get to Isabella’s ship. We’ll meet you there.”

“What—”

Brenna clamped a hand on his shoulder to steady him as she plunged her blade into his back. Anders flinched and gasped in shock, and Marian shrieked as he slumped sideways. Brenna said a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker, Zevran Arainai, and the Antivan Crows. The wound looked mortal, but he would live. A spray of blood spattered her armor as she pulled the blade free. She rose and turned to Meredith, meeting the templar's icy gaze with a hard glare.

“Champion?” The first enchanter looked to Hawke for aid, and she nodded weakly.

“I won’t let her slaughter you,” Hawke promised.

Meredith scowled. “Think carefully, Champion. Stand with them and you share their fate.”

“I can live with that.” Hawke turned to the first enchanter. “Go, we’ll be right behind you.” Orsino retreated as ordered, and the knight commander looked on with icy disdain.

“You are a fool, Champion.”

“Better a fool than a monster.”

Meredith whirled on her troops. “Back to the Gallows. We will deal with this.”

Once they were gone Brenna cleaned her knife and sheathed it as she approached her cousins. She met Marian’s eyes. “We need to deploy your exit strategy.”

“Right.” Marian nodded and took a deep breath. “Are you ready for this?”

“Unfortunately someone forced our hands, but yes.” Brenna grimaced as her stomach soured—so much careful planning and strategizing ruined in one moment by an impatient abomination. They weren’t prepared, but now they had no choice but to proceed. The next few hours would determine the course of the mage rebellion.

“We can kill Anders again later,” Marian muttered. “If we all live.”

Squaring her shoulders, Hawke issued orders to her companions. Isabella, Merrill, and Fenris were sent to ready her ship to sail, and Varric and Guard-Captain Aveline joined Hawke for the journey to the Gallows.

***

As Hawke and Meredith traded barbs across the courtyard of the Gallows, Brenna’s attention was focused on Cullen. He refused to meet her gaze, his attention focused on his commander, and she wasn’t certain if that was a blessing.

Brenna knew that Cullen couldn’t agree with Meredith’s decision. Not now, not after they had been through so much together.

_“Come home with me,” Brenna pleaded. She couldn’t stand the thought of returning to Amaranthine without him._

_Cullen shook his head. “I can’t. I have a duty to the Order—”_

_“Fuck the Order,” she snapped. “What has it ever done for you?”_

_“It brought me you.” He held her tight and pressed a gentle kiss atop her head. “Things have been bad here, much worse than I let on in my letters. I’ve done everything I can to protect everyone from Meredith, mage and templar alike.”_

_Her heart ached—she knew it was true, and she hated it. “It shouldn’t be your burden. It doesn’t have to be.”_

_“‘Light shall shine upon all of creation, if we are only strong enough to carry it,’” he quoted. “I wanted to do the Maker’s work. Maybe I was sent here to prevent another disaster like Kinloch.”_

_“My brave knight.” Brenna sighed. “I love you.”_

_“I love you, too.”_

“We’ll give you one hour to prepare your people,” Meredith said. Brenna dragged her attention back to the matter at hand.

She followed Hawke and Orsino into the mage’s quarters. Maker, she hated the Gallows. Pity they couldn’t raze the building on their way out.

“It’s not enough time,” Hawke said. “We planned for a night escape and at least three hours. We might be able to do it in two, but—”

“One hour, cousin,” Brenna interrupted. “Call it out.”

Hawke didn’t have military training, but the years since she had become the Champion of Kirkwall had changed her. She was still sassy and irreverent, but the responsibility of so many lives looking to her for aid had hardened her into a leader.

Hawke swallowed hard and nodded. She turned to the first enchanter. “Get as many people as you can to the tunnel that leads to the docks. Tranquil included.”

“But Meredith collapsed that entrance,” Orsino said.

“Lucky for you, my cousin can solve that problem.” Hawke thumped Brenna on the back. “Hurry. As many as you can with as much as they can carry. Food and water, not just books.”

Orsino left, and Hawke motioned her companions on. “This way. We have to go through the apprentice dormitory to get to the tunnel.”

“Shouldn’t we be preparing for battle?” Varric asked.

“Battle is the easy part of this plan,” Hawke said. “Evacuation first.”

Varric smirked. “There’s a plan? That’ll be a nice change.”

“We’ve been working on this scenario since before Sister Nightingale paid us a visit,” Hawke said. “Once we knew that the chantry had no intention of saving the mages from Meredith, we knew we’d have to do it ourselves.”

“And when were you going to tell us about this?” Guard-Captain Aveline asked.

“I wasn’t,” Hawke said. “I couldn’t ask you to do this, so the less you knew, the better. There’s no coming back from this.”

“That’s what Blondie said, too,” Varric muttered.

They hurried through cramped, narrow halls. The circle portion of the Gallows comprised the former slave cells, while the templar portion had been built for the slavers. Brenna sensed new nightmares in her future.

They opened the door to the apprentice dormitory and were met by two templars with drawn swords.

“We won’t let you—Messere Hawke?”

“Knight-Lieutenant Jacques?” Hawke replied. “Who’s your friend?”

“Knight-Corporal Nadia,” the woman said as they lowered their weapons. “We came to defend the children from Meredith’s purge.”

“Just the two of you?” Hawke asked. “I would’ve hoped for more.

“The others are trying to talk sense to the knight commander, like the knight captain.”

“Cullen?” Brenna asked, and they nodded. A fraction of her tension eased—Cullen was trying to stop Meredith.

Hawke snorted. “Good luck with that. Listen, we need good templars to join our rebellion. Knights who want to do the Maker’s will, not the Order’s or the Chantry’s.”

“You’re not opposed to templars?” Jacques asked warily.

“No,” Hawke said. “We’re opposed to power-hungry madwomen like Meredith and those who keep her in power. If you agree, you’re welcome to come with us.”

Jacques and Nadia shared a glance before nodding. 

“Good, let’s go.”

The tunnel’s entrance had been filled in with stone and soil—as a quarry, Kirkwall had an abundance of both. Brenna frowned as she examined the area, and Hawke watched her anxiously.

“Well?” Hawke asked. “Can you do it?”

Opening the tunnel would require force magic, one of Brenna’s newer schools of study. The spell in question was intended to hurl groups of enemies to the ground and pin them there, but this task required reversing the effect—hurling the ground into the air and keeping it aloft.

“Yes. Clear the area,” Brenna ordered.

She knelt near the tunnel’s edge, closed her eyes and placed her palms on the stone. Tendrils of magic wove through the ground beneath her like water winding a path to the tunnel’s floor. When she was certain she had a good grasp of the necessary area, Brenna opened her eyes and ignited the spell. The ground vibrated and then exploded into a storm of dirt and grit that rotated like a cyclone. It swirled higher as Brenna rose and extended her arms, until finally the entrance was clear again.

“Go,” she said.

Hawke nodded and turned to Bethany and Nathaniel. “You two take point.”

“No.” Bethany shook her head. “We’re staying to help you.”

“You can’t,” Hawke said. “You’ve studied force magic. You have to open the other end.”

Bethany scowled, and then she caught her sister in a fierce hug. “You better be right behind us.”

“We will.”

The first group of mages waited, and Bethany nodded to Orsino. “After you, First Enchanter.”

“I should stay—” Orsino began, but Hawke cut him off.

“No, your people need someone they can trust to lead them. That’s you. Go.”

The trio vanished into the tunnel and a flood of apprentices followed. 

Brenna met Hawke’s gaze. “We’re not going to be behind them, are we?”

“No. We’re going out the front. I’m not leaving until I kill Meredith.”

“Understood.”

“Keep the tunnel open,” Hawke said. “We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”

Brenna nodded. “I’ll join you after.”

***

She held the spell until Varric called to her to close the tunnel, and once she was certain that the last group of mages was clear she released the magic. An avalanche of stone and soil sealed their fate, and Brenna chugged a lyrium potion to fight off fatigue.

The halls were lined with corpses—mage and templar, including a few abominations—and blood soaked the stone. Her steps slowed and she swallowed hard.

“You all right?” Varric asked.

“No.”

“Good, me neither.” He hefted his crossbow. “But Bianca’s okay. Come on, Hawke’s waiting.”

They joined Hawke and Aveline and returned to the Gallows’ courtyard, where Knight-Commander Meredith immediately ordered her men to kill the Champion. Brenna tensed when she recognized Cullen and then relaxed when he placed himself between Meredith and Hawke.

“Knight-Commander, I thought we intended to arrest the Champion,” Cullen said.

Brenna was reminded of Ser Cauthrien’s attempt to arrest her at Arl Howe’s estate and the bloodbath that ensued. She expected that Hawke would respond to the situation in the same way.

“You will do as I command, Cullen.”

“No. This is too far.”

“I will not allow insubordination! We must stay true to our path!” She drew her sword on Cullen and Hawke and her companions gasped.

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks,” Varric exclaimed.

“What? What’s wrong?” Brenna asked.

“That’s the lyrium idol,” Hawke said. “Though it was a lot less sword-like last time we saw it. Guess it still makes people crazy. Well, crazier in her case.”

Meredith pointed the lyrium blade at Hawke. “All of you, I want her dead!”

“Enough!” Cullen shouted. “This is not what the Order stands for. Knight-Commander, step down. I relieve you of your command!”

“You dare! You’re just a tool of your apostate whore. You’re weak. You’re all weak, allowing the mages to control your minds, to turn you against me! But I don’t need any of you! I will protect this city myself!”

Cullen drew his sword. “You’ll have to go through me.”

“Idiot boy. Just like all the others.” Meredith drove her sword into the ground in a shower of red sparks. “Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter!”

Meredith vaulted into the courtyard and charged Hawke. She moved with supernatural speed and Hawke was put on a desperate defense. Aveline and Brenna charged in to draw Meredith’s focus away—like most mages, Marian was accustomed to fighting at range, not battling face-to-face with a madwoman wielding a cursed sword.

Brenna’s spell blades found a gap in the knight commander’s armor and she zapped her with a shock spell. Meredith countered by silencing Brenna and she stumbled away. She squared her shoulders—even without magic she was a force to be reckoned with—and as she lunged forward she spotted Cullen rushing forward to stand beside her.

Hawke and Varric attacked from a distance and Aveline, Cullen, and Brenna wore Meredith down until the knight commander managed another amazing leap and landed out of harm’s way.

“Maker, your servant begs you for the strength to defeat this evil!”

Eerie crimson magic pulsed from her sword, and for a moment nothing happened. Then a series of strange metallic groans and cracking stone echoed through the courtyard, and Brenna’s jaw dropped as the statues began to move.

“Well, that’s new,” Varric said.

She scowled—blades were useless against opponents without flesh or soft spots to exploit.

“Stay on Meredith,” Hawke yelled. “We’ll keep the statues off you.”

The rest of the templars had been holding back, uncertain of whether to join their knight captain in battling their commander, but the animated statues seemed a bridge too far. They waded into the fray, and Cullen dropped back to command them.

Brenna dodged a blow just as Hawke called out, “Firestorm!”

Aveline and Brenna hurled themselves out of the way as Hawke’s spell rained fire on Meredith. Brenna added a tempest spell when the fire waned, and as she focused on the magic she missed her cousin’s shouted warning.

Something slammed into her right side and she was airborne. Brenna sailed through the air, slammed into a stone column, and crashed to the ground. She groaned as pain exploded through her—definitely broken ribs, possibly also her arm. She blinked as Cullen’s face swam into view.

“What hit me?” Brenna asked him.

“Statue. Here.” Cullen pressed a healing potion to her lips. She choked the potion down and he helped her sit up.

A slave statue loomed over them and she hurled a stonefist spell into its chest. “I fucking hate those statues.”

“Agreed.” He helped her to her feet, and she pulled him close for a kiss before they rejoined the battle.

Brenna rejoined Aveline as she squared off against a trio of slave statues. When the statues crumbled they turned to see Hawke closing with Meredith, her staff whirling furiously as she hurled spell after spell at her nemesis. The knight commander staggered, and then she raised her sword.

“I will not be defeated! Maker! Aid your humble servant!” The blade shattered and a cloud of lurid red magic enveloped Meredith. She screamed, but the sound was suddenly silenced when her twisted form hardened into a macabre statue.

The courtyard was still and silent, as though everyone was too afraid to breathe. The combatants had separated into two sides—the Order on one, the Champion’s allies on the other. Brenna stared across the distance and her eyes locked with Cullen’s. She stepped forward and held out her hand to him, and the templars flinched and raised their weapons. She froze, her throat tight with anguish.

_“Come home with me.”_

_“I can’t. I have a duty to the Order.”_

They were on opposite sides of the board.

“We need to go.” Marian placed a hand on her shoulder, and Brenna shuddered. “Cousin, it’s time to go. Please.”

Her heart in her throat, Brenna turned and followed Hawke into an uncertain future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got to work through my, "I hate everything about this ending" feelings from DA2. Everybody lives! Except Meredith.
> 
> Don't worry, everything will work out between Cullen and Brenna (and Zevran and Leliana) in Part 2, which I started writing as this year's NaNoWriMo novel. :)


	22. Legends and other Lies

_ “Word spread quickly—nearly an entire Circle of Magi vanished, rescued out from under Meredith’s nose as she planned to murder them for a crime they didn’t commit. The Champion and the Hero of Ferelden had defended the mages against a brutal injustice. Their names became rallying cries, a reminder that the mighty templars could be defied. _

_ “The Order never had a chance against them—a clever apostate and a war hero who’d been planning their uprising for months, maybe years. One by one they liberated other Circles and set the world on fire.” Varric shrugged. “So that’s it. That’s the whole story.” _

_ “Then Meredith provoked them,” the seeker said. “She was to blame.” _

_ “Or that damned idol was. Or Anders. Take your pick.” Varric sat back and watched her warily. “How is hearing all this going to help? You’ve already lost all the Circles. In fact, haven’t the templars rebelled as well? I thought you abandoned the Chantry to hunt the mages.” _

_ “Not all of us desire this war, Varric. Please, if you know where the Champion and the Hero of Ferelden are, you must tell me. They are the only ones who can stop this madness. They may be the only ones who can.” _

_ “Is that what this is all about?” _

_ Bullshit. The Chantry had to be scared shitless to send the Right and Left Hands of the Divine to squeeze information out of him now. Hawke and Amell had done more than start a revolution—they cut off the Chantry’s cash flow. The Chantry relied on the Circles’ free labor to produce all those potions and enchanted items that paid for their embroidered robes and ridiculous high hats. Varric bet that the chantry’s coffers were just about empty. _

_ He imagined Seeker Pentaghast approaching Hawke and Amell with her claim of playing peacemaker. Hawke would smile her crooked, mischievous grin and say something like, “Give up? But I’m winning!” Amell would simply stare the seeker down and say, “Checkmate.” _

_ Varric gave the seeker an insincere smile. “In that case, I wish I could help you.” _

***

The sweltering afternoon had become a humid early evening—where had the time gone? Brenna’s leaden limbs moved automatically, following her cousin like a silent golem. She should feel victorious, but this felt like a loss. A deep, cutting loss that severed her last tie to her old life.

“There she is.” Hawke grinned as she pointed at Isabella’s ship sailing toward the Gallows docks. “We should row out to meet her.”

Brenna touched her cousin’s shoulder, and then nodded to Aveline and Varric. “You should tell them.”

Hawke’s smile faded as she gazed at her friends. “I...we’re not coming back. You’re welcome to come with us.”

“No, Hawke.” Aveline shook her head. “This is my home now. I can’t follow you this time.”

They embraced, and Brenna saluted Aveline. “Guard Captain.”

“Warden Commander.”

Brenna winced. “Somehow I doubt they’ll let me keep my command. Or my title.”

“Then I guess that means you need a nickname,” Varric said. “I’ve been thinking ‘Kingmaker.’”

Brenna smiled weakly. “Thanks, I think.”

Varric turned to Hawke. “I can’t come with you, either. Someone needs to keep Aveline on her toes.”

Aveline sighed. “Varric—”

“I understand.” Hawke hugged him. “Maker watch over you.”

Finished with their goodbyes, Hawke and Brenna climbed into a boat and began rowing toward Isabella’s ship.

Brenna stopped when they were halfway there. “Anders can’t be a part of this.”

“I know.” Hawke sighed. “If I want to keep him alive he has to stay dead.”

“It’s more than that. He attacked civilians. Countless civilians. He can’t be a part of what happens next, not even behind the scenes.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“I—what?”

_ “I had to, Bren. I had to. Another week, maybe two, and Meredith would know that Marian is—” _

“That’s what made him snap, I assume,” Hawke said. “We weren’t sure what to do once I couldn’t hide it anymore. I was thinking of coming to you and having the baby in Amaranthine. Anders wanted our baby born in a new world, damn the consequences.”

“Maker’s breath. That does sound like him.” Brenna grimaced as the ship loomed closer. “Guess we’d better hurry up and build that new world, then.”


End file.
